


Headwinds

by MistressPandora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Anal Sex, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, I'll warn you before I kill someone important, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, You don't see much of Castiel/Balthazar really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Dean and Sam Winchester are officers aboard the pirate ship Blackbird, ferocious and cunning. After Captain Balthazar Shurley takes a handsome prisoner named Castiel as his lover and then makes him first mate, the Winchester brothers are ready for a change. Dean didn’t expect to find himself sneaking around behind his captain’s back, betraying him at every turn. A hurricane forces Castiel to make a choice. Will Dean accept his help to rescue his brother from Balthazar’s quest for vengeance? More importantly, will they be able to catch the Blackbird in time to save Sam’s life?





	1. The Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it's finally here!!! This is my entry for the [2018 Dean Cas Mini Bang](https://deancasminibang.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> This entire thing has been about a year in the making between the time I first set hands to keyboard all the way through [Idjitsavior's](https://idjitsaviors.tumblr.com/) absolutely INCREDIBLE art! Every sketch, rough idea, draft, final piece of art that she showed me just blew me away. I've embedded her pieces throughout the story, but make sure you head over to her Tumblr and spread the love!
> 
> Also a sincere and heartfelt thank you to my lovely betas and cheerleaders: [Firefly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefly124/pseuds/firefly124) and [Spnhell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnhell/pseuds/spnhell). I couldn't have done it without your amazing help!
> 
> Last but not least, that minor character death is pretty significant and appears in the first chapter. If you want to be mentally prepared for it, skip to the end note and I'll drop the spoiler in there. I promise there's a purpose to it and I'm not just killing beloved characters for the sake of being an evil god!

The pirate ship  _ Blackbird _ and her crew had been berthed at Nassau, New Providence for five days. Her master-at-arms, Dean Winchester, had the unfortunate task of retrieving the first mate from the Harvelle estate the morning they were set to weigh anchor. It was unfortunate because it was no secret to Dean that he was about to pull the first mate from his lover’s boudoir.

His bootheels clapped on the cobblestone path leading to the manor. It was a colossal structure of gleaming white columns supporting equally bright verandas on the first and second floor. The stucco walls had been painted a vibrant rose, which Dean thought was a vast improvement to the heinous chartreuse it had sported the last time he’d been to the estate, some two years ago. Now matured, swaying coconut palms and banana trees lined the property and all six sets of French doors on the lanais were open to let in the breeze, sheer drapes billowing. It was the portrait of a tropical paradise. For someone else. Someone with clean hands and a soul to match.

As he stepped under the cover of the terrace, Dean removed his tricorn, as his late mother had drilled into him as a boy, thinking of her as he ran his fingers down the white feather stuck into the brim. His eyes darted around him, and he offered a weak smile and nod to a well-dressed couple that strolled past. To the passersby, he must have looked like some swashbuckling ne’er-do-well come to rob the place. This would have been partially correct. As he was in fact a swashbuckling ne’er-do-well, he always had his eye open for an opportunity, but he could never steal from Ellen Harvelle. She ran one of the last establishments to deal in pirated goods and to betray her would be to bite the hand that fed him. Not to mention that she was practically family, like a dear aunt, and because of that Dean felt a fierce loyalty to her.

He rapped his knuckles against the frame of the central set of doors on the lower level, first softly, then louder but with still-wavering confidence. He shot a nervous glance around him. At once a young woman with plain features and mousy brown hair rounded the damasked corner to his left as if she’d been hovering just out of sight, waiting to pounce on the next guest. At over six feet tall, Dean towered over this woman of about five-foot-three. “Yes? Are you expected?” she asked. She wore a floor-length black dress and white apron, black buckled shoes polished but well-worn, marking her as a maid.

Excellent question. Maybe? He cleared his throat. “Dean Winchester for Mr. Singer, please.”

The maid motioned him into the parlor. “Please have a seat,” she said. She continued past to a curving staircase, her low heels clacking on the parquet floor. Dean eyed the ivory sofa but, considering he couldn’t remember when he’d last washed his clothes, he elected to remain on his feet. The cool Caribbean breeze dancing through the house smelled salty-sweet, like the sea and fresh-cut flowers. He allowed himself to close his eyes and savor it and for a moment he was on the  _ Blackbird _ where he belonged, rather than this palatial house where he clearly had no place. The parlor was decked in shades of pale bisque and cream, like fresh butter. Or an ivory tower. It was a stark contrast to the dingy black clothes and dirty fingernails he sported.

Dean caught a glance of himself in a looking glass above the mantel. His handsome face was bronzed by the sun and smudged with grime in the shallow laugh lines around his bright green eyes. His brown hair, which he normally kept short, was tussled and in need of a trim. He tried to smooth it down with a sweaty palm but only succeeded in making himself look more like a scoundrel. He wore a black felted coat that brushed the backs of his knees. The brass buttons would need polishing soon, he noted, as would his black leather boots. All in all, though, not a bad picture. Dean gave his reflection a wink and let his eyes wander the room, his fingers still fidgeting with the feather in his tricorn.

When Bobby Singer appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, his clothes were more rumpled than usual, as if he’d rushed to dress. The old first mate had buttoned his shirt one-off and the tails hung lopsided and untucked over a soft belly. His greying beard and salt-and-pepper hair yearned for a comb. He had bags under his eyes and a spring in his step as he descended the staircase to the parlor. He looked to have gotten no rest but was nonetheless recharged. It occurred to Dean that he was looking at the last man aboard the  _ Blackbird _ to ever complain about being at sea away from female company. As it turned out, a few nights with Ellen Harvelle was enough to see Mr. Singer through a four-month voyage. Bobby tossed his jacket to Dean and shoved his shirttails into his navy trousers without a word of greeting.

Dean cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence that hung in the air. “The, ah, captain is ready to shove off.” He held out the jacket for Bobby, who accepted it and thrust his arms into the sleeves.

“Robert Singer, don’t you dare leave this house without giving me a kiss goodbye,” came Ellen’s smoky voice from the stairs, like aged whiskey and a dab of honey. Dean ducked his head, his cheeks warm. She wore only a green dressing gown with a silk sash which she tangled into a loose bow at her waist as she descended the steps. Her dirty blond hair was as mussed as Bobby’s and though her oval face bore no cosmetics, her confident posture gave her a certain beauty that had nothing to do with accoutrements.

“Yes, ma’am.” Bobby strode to meet Ellen at the foot of the stairs. He took her into his arms, dipped her back and laid a kiss on her that was searing and enthusiastic and the embodiment of total impropriety. Though Dean was not one to be embarrassed by open displays of affection or sexuality, this was more than a little like watching his parents indulge in intimacy. He found himself vowing that next time, his brother would get to fetch the old salt from his lover’s arms.

Dean cleared his throat again, startling the couple out of their engrossment with one another. Bobby returned Ellen to her feet and kissed the back of her hand. They didn’t say goodbye, but something significant passed between their eyes, evaporating all the awkwardness of the last few moments. They loved each other. Dean knew theirs had begun as a friendship born of shared pain, the kind of friendship that blossomed in two people who had both lost the loves of their lives. He didn’t believe Ellen would ever replace Bobby’s wife—and vice versa for Ellen—but there was a definite strength to their bond far beyond a romp in Ellen’s bedchamber. It warmed his heart to watch it pass between them and a genuine smile tugged at his lips.

Even though Dean hadn’t spent a night ashore without the company of a beautiful stranger, he suddenly felt the pang of loneliness and his smile faltered. There was no tenderness or real passion in his different-person-every-night habits. What Bobby and Ellen had was tangible and he hoped he’d be half as fortunate one day.

 

***

 

The  _ Blackbird _ was a blonde and blue, sixteen-gun sloop with a fore and aft mast and a single headsail. She wasn’t the fastest or the most heavily armed ship on the ocean, but she’d always had the good fortune to be manned by a cunning crew.

She began her life as an American privateering vessel. At the time, she was commanded by Captain Michael Shurley. Captain Shurley’s appearance was a study in contrasts between his fair complexion and dark hair and eyes. A rather privileged young man for a privateer, the American government had granted him a commission to pick off enemy trade ships and pirates. The difference between pirates and privateers was the papers and the taxes. The life was just as harsh and dangerous and privateers kept less of their earnings, but the chances of being hanged—at least by the Americans in their case—were a bit slimmer.

As the story went, Captain Shurley was satisfied with his position as a privateer. Perhaps he felt it was more moral if the government decreed it was the right thing to do. His first mate and cousin Balthazar Shurley disagreed, preferring the freedom and increased wealth afforded by an outlaw status.

Balthazar was many things—greedy, self-absorbed, rather vain—but he hadn’t struck Dean as a murderer. Dean had never met a common man with cleaner hands. It was no secret that Balthazar’s merit as first mate rested entirely on being Captain Shurley’s cousin. He never led boarding parties, he never took galley duty, and he never helped scrub the deck. If Dean hadn't seen it with his own two eyes, he never would have believed Balthazar capable of killing a man in cold blood.

It was in the wee hours one night after a day selling pilfered goods wherever they could. Balthazar and Captain Shurley crowded around the small desk in the captain’s cabin, counting out the crew’s share over a few generous mugs of ale. Balthazar argued that it would be easy to lie to the Navy about what they’d made at market and pay a smaller tax but the captain remained steadfast. Whether it was a sense of morality or fear of the consequences should his deception be discovered, an argument ensued. It graduated from  _ heated _ to  _ impassioned _ and on to  _ violent _ .

Dean served as the boatswain at that time and he and Mr. Singer as the master-at-arms were to deliver the men their shares of the spoils. Mr. Singer thumped his knuckles against the captain’s cabin door and, hearing indistinct shouting on the inside, shouldered his way in with concern in his brown eyes. He and Dean drew up short when they noticed Captain Shurley facing off against Balthazar. The first mate’s pistol was raised in one shaking hand and aimed in the general direction of his cousin’s torso.

“Cap’n?” Singer asked, unsure how to handle this clear attempt at mutiny without a death toll.

“Never mind, Mr. Singer. This dog wouldn’t dare—"  _ bang _ ! Michael clutched his middle, blood pouring through his fingers. Balthazar’s eyes alternated between cold and shocked, and he didn’t resist when Singer took the pistol away. The captain collapsed onto the deck, blood staining his lips. Within moments the light went out of his eyes and he expired right there on the planks.

Balthazar opened the captain’s desk and retrieved the commission paper. He shredded it into pieces and threw them onto the corpse with a sneer. Blood stained the bits of parchment deep crimson in the pale lamplight. 

“Tell the men.” His voice was hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken in days even though he had been shouting moments before. “Tell them our privateering days are behind us. We’re free. And I’m the captain now.”

“Aye, sir,” Singer and Dean said in unison before making their way to the crew quarters.

Dean blew out a breath and shook his head as he and Singer’s boots clomped on the decking. “Did that just happen?” he asked.

“Yeah. I reckon it did.”

 

***

 

It took almost a week for the  _ Blackbird _ to come across another vessel they could prey upon. She was a French ship, small for a frigate, traveling west with full sheets and an unsteady wind that made her sails flutter at intervals. Sam Winchester, the boatswain, and his men fought to keep the wind as well, heaving at the booms as often as not. Where Dean was tall, his younger brother was a towering young man with sad eyes and a kind smile. He wore his hair long in a wild, loose mane and his linen shirt partially open to reveal a tanned and toned chest. Dean cast his eyes up to the cloudless sky. It was about half ten judging by the sun’s slow climb and it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. The sun beat down warm but pleasant, the occasional spray of the ocean refreshing on his face. It would have been a perfect day if the damn wind would just cooperate a little. Despite the  _ Blackbird’s _ advantage of being lighter and faster, the wind would make it difficult to overtake the larger ship. But, Dean figured, the reward wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying if it were always easy.

The truth was, piracy was rarely easy. Lawless freedom notwithstanding, sailing in general was hard work. Harnessing the wind to overcome a ship’s drag was back-breaking. Disabling another ship with long guns was damn-near a fantasy. Sometimes the target would run up the white flag and surrender as soon as the  _ Blackbird’s  _ Jolly Roger unfurled. But the truth was that the Golden Age of Piracy had drawn to a close and the Caribbean was as dangerous for pirates as it was for their prey, perhaps more so. The region was under a constant barrage of law enforcement by the British, and pirates had been picked off and hanged in droves.

But as long as there were laws there would be those who broke them. It’s not that the crew of the  _ Blackbird  _ thought they were above the law or that it didn’t apply to them; rather, most of them recognized that laws served only those who created them, the rest of the world be damned. Dean figured that if they were already damned, he and his brother might as well make the most of it on their way to hell.

Squinting against the glare of the unforgiving sun, Dean raised his spyglass to his right eye. The frigate was indeed struggling, and with more sails than the  _ Blackbird  _ her crew had a harder time with the indecisive wind. Lowering the telescope and measuring the distance with his hand, he figured they were in range for the long nines. “We’re in range, Captain,” he shouted to Balthazar.

From the helm on the quarterdeck, Balthazar nodded once. “Very good. Boatswain, hoist the colors. Mr. Singer, fire across her bow. Let’s get her attention.”

“Aye, sir,” Bobby said.

Sam’s strong arms pulled on a line, one over the other, until the flag unfurled at the top of the aft mast. A white skull over crossed daggers on a field of black. The silhouette of a blackbird was positioned over the center of the skull’s forehead like a shot between the eyes.

On Bobby’s order, the two forward guns fired, port then starboard. Dean watched the French vessel through his telescope for a reaction. Sam’s men had finally harnessed the wind and they were gaining on her, leaving the poor frigate with no chance to escape. It’d take a while, but the  _ Blackbird _ would overtake her for sure. Below the French colors at the aft of the ship rose a white flag.

Really? “She’s surrendering, sir!” Dean shouted so that the entire crew could hear.

The frigate even went so far as to trim sails. Balthazar smirked, a self-satisfied twisting of the lips as if he had single-handedly accomplished some great victory.

Dean frowned at that. Why were the French making it so easy for them? A sense of foreboding settled cold into his blood. Something wasn’t right. He strode across the main deck to Bobby’s side and spoke in a hushed tone. “This seem a little too easy to you?”

Bobby’s dark eyes narrowed at the growing shape of the frigate this side of the horizon. “Yeah. What do you suppose they’re playing at?”

The master-at-arms shook his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

With the frigate just sitting there waiting to be boarded, it took half the usual time to overtake her. Balthazar steered the  _ Blackbird _ alongside the frigate and Bobby called the boarding party to the main deck. It would be a tricky maneuver to grapple with a ship so much larger than the sloop. Dean and Bobby stood at the railing with four other men, lines and grappling hooks held in their hands. On the first mate’s order, they flung the hooks over the side of the frigate and tugged until the hooks dug into their prey’s railing. They heaved on the lines until the ships were close enough to climb aboard the frigate. The sea between the two vessels sloshed violently, slapping against the hulls. The tricky part about being this close was not tangling the rigging of one ship on any protruding bits of the other.

Dean and Bobby were always among the first men to board, because they didn’t believe in expendable men and the first over the railing had pistols to contend with. Therefore, the most experienced fighters boarded first. But if the  _ Blackbird’s _ prey had surrendered, as this frigate had, it was anyone’s guess what was to happen next.

Dean gripped the line in his rough hands, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. He pulled himself to stand on the  _ Blackbird’s  _ railing, leaned back to test the grip of the grappling hook one last time, and swung out over the space between the two vessels, his stomach clenching for a bare moment as he did. His boots sounded on the hull of the frigate and, blowing out his held breath, he began his ascent. Hand over hand he climbed, his biceps burning under the strain of his weight only as he reached the top. Out of his peripheral vision he saw Bobby to his right doing the same thing. He was strong for a man his age.

There was no way of knowing what waited for them at the top of the frigate’s main deck. In the best-case scenario, the crew would willingly hand over their cargo and Dean and his men would be on their merry way. Worst case, they were about to face a shipload of heavily armed Frenchmen waiting to kill themselves some pirates.

Dean clambered over the side of the frigate’s railing, arms tired from the climb. Bobby made his way over the railing immediately after him. They gaped at the spectacle before them. Each member of the crew on deck had his hands raised in the universal sign for “don’t shoot.” Pirates climbed over the ledge behind them and gathered to either side of Bobby and Dean. The master-at-arms grew increasingly uneasy as the staring match continued. He identified the captain based on the size of his hat and drew his dragon pistol, leveling it at the captain’s chest with a frown.

“Pilfer the holds,” Bobby ordered and the pirates dispersed below without a word. Dean didn’t take his eyes off the captain at the other end of his pistol.  _ Uneasy _ didn’t begin to describe how he felt about this situation.

The raid was well underway when this best-case scenario came apart at the seams. The captain’s mouth twisted into something sinister and he barked out a single word in French. A moment later the deck shuddered as the frigate’s port guns fired once on the  _ Blackbird _ . Dean sucked in a startled breath and pulled his own trigger on the exhale, the strong muscles of his arms fighting the recoil and keeping the gun steady. The captain stumbled back with a shout, clutching his middle, and collapsed, bleeding and dead on his deck. Dean forced himself to watch him die, adrenaline dulling the pang of regret and guilt in the pit of his stomach.

Chaos erupted as the French sailors all drew weapons and turned them on the pirates. A blond man rushed Dean with a sword aimed for his belly. He spun out of the way and drew his dagger, the saber narrowly missing him. His best chance was to keep the fighting too close for the cutlass to be effective. The sailor raised his blade, giving Dean an opening to run him through the gut, thick blood coating his hand. The sword continued its arch toward him and Dean parried with a slash to the Frenchman’s forearm. It cut deep and he dropped the sword with a clatter, finally crumpling to the deck.

Thunder clapped and the frigate lurched. The  _ Blackbird _ was returning fire. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean yelled. What the actual hell was Balthazar thinking? At this range, the carronades were as likely to ricochet and damage the  _ Blackbird _ as they were to penetrate the thicker hull of the frigate. And the exaggerated swaying motion of the frigate made it more likely that they would snag on the  _ Blackbird’s _ rigging. As one of the frigate’s booms came unsecured and swung around, it did exactly that, catching in one of the standing lines of the  _ Blackbird’s  _ aft mast.

Dean’s eyes darted from the battle around him to the calamity above that his brother was now climbing up the mast to rectify. The frigate tossed side to side, dragging the  _ Blackbird _ with it. Dean’s heart stopped in his chest as his brother was tossed around, struggling to maintain his grip. Sam reached the offending boom and tugged on the line but it wouldn’t budge. His scowl deepened and he began sawing at the line with his dagger.

“Back to the  _ Blackbird _ !” Bobby shouted. “Fall back!"

Pirates scrambled back over the railing while the French sailors opened fire with their pistols. Dean dropped to a low crouch out of the way of the nearest shooter. When he looked back up it was to watch a young man named Henry fall from the shot meant for him. Henry flipped backwards over the railing behind him and was lost to the sea. “No!” Dean cried, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. He hadn’t known Henry very well but he was a good fighter and Dean still considered him a friend.

With anger blurring his vision, Dean charged the shooter and tackled him to the ground, his pistol sliding away as they fell to the deck in a heap. He pushed down on the Frenchman with all his weight. He had all the leverage and managed to pin down both of the other man’s arms with his right knee and left hand. With his right hand—his dagger hand—he slit the sailor’s throat. Deep crimson blood flowed from the gaping wound. The sailor’s face turned white and a moment later he stopped struggling under Dean.

Bobby’s voice came from behind him, clawing its way above the ringing in his ears. “Come on, Dean! Get a move on!”

Dean came back to his senses and rose to his feet. Bobby was halfway over the railing and the  _ Blackbird _ began to pull away slowly. The younger man sprinted to the railing as another trio of shots rang out from the frigate’s port guns. He gripped the line as he swung his legs over the railing and repelled down the side of the frigate. He pushed off with his legs when he was close enough to fall to the deck of the  _ Blackbird _ . He came down on his left shoulder and dislocated it with an audible pop and a pained shout. White light flashed over his vision as the  _ Blackbird _ continued to pull away.

Dean climbed to his feet, babying his wounded shoulder. His eyes fell on Sam, whose attention flashed between his older brother and the damaged ship with equal amounts of worry. A blast of cannon fire had hit the main mast and cracked it, rendering the mainsheet useless.

“Trim that sail,” Sam shouted, pointing at the main mast. His men hurried to comply. Between the wounded mast and the damage to the aft rigging, the  _ Blackbird _ was all but dead in the water.

“Starboard guns, open fire!” Bobby ordered. Eight blasts sounded in a staccato pattern, then a pause, then eight more. Finally, a breach opened up on the side of the frigate and she listed.

“Again,” Balthazar yelled, and was answered by eight more blasts from the carronades. The frigate began taking on water. Boats went down, men jumping in from both sides. The French ship was lost, and thus was the  _ Blackbird’s _ payday.

So was Henry. Dean would worry about that when his shoulder wasn’t on fire and hanging out of its socket. With Sam busy rigging up the  _ Blackbird _ to sail again, Dean approached Bobby. He motioned to his left shoulder with his right hand. “Can you help me out with this?”

“Dislocated?”

Dean nodded, breathless under the pain. “Oh yeah.”

“Okay. On three. One—.”  _ Crack _ .

Dean gasped and let out another wordless shout of pain. He gingerly tested the joint with a couple gentle stretches of his left arm. “Thanks.”

Bobby nodded. “Welcome.”

The sun began its slow descent below the horizon and Rufus Turner—the ship’s cook and sometime surgeon—announced that evening chow was ready. Dean thought of the three men he’d killed and his stomach turned; then the smell of roasted chicken hit him and whetted his appetite. He looked to Sam, who was busy overseeing repairs. The poor kid would forget to eat dinner tonight, so Dean decided to bring him a plate after a quick bite himself.

After dinner, Dean helped Sam and his men polish off the last of the repairs before turning in for the night. Every time he fell asleep, he’d wake up sweating, the image of the frigate captain’s dead eyes in his mind. Or the sailor whose throat he’d slit. Or Henry, plummeting to the sea, lifeless. Every time he fell asleep, he was startled awake and found no rest. Stealing he'd grown accustomed to. Killing not so much. It was still as hard as the first time, years ago, and he’d invariably spend the night wrestling with his own self-loathing for it. It didn’t help that he was good at it.

 

***

 

About two weeks later, the wind carried a cry from the crow’s nest of the  _ Blackbird. _ “Sails! Sails off the port bow!”

Finding the ship in the distance, Dean squinted into his spyglass and, through the glare of the setting sun, the master-at-arms saw stars and stripes flying atop the mast. He sprinted up the few steps to the quarterdeck and next to Balthazar at the helm. “Captain, it’s an American ship. They’re full sail and she’s got the wind behind her. She’ll be on us in under an hour.”

The captain nodded, his blue bicorn hat bobbing with the motion. “We’ll take her. Prepare your men. Let’s hope she lights her lanterns before the sun sets.” Balthazar was a man of slight stature and build, far too small for his hat, which he wore at an angle he probably thought was jaunty. The reality was that he looked like the wind was perpetually getting the best of him.

“Aye, sir,” Dean said with a nod. Attacking at night was a dodgy plan. And dangerous.

“Mr. Singer!” Balthazar shouted. Bobby hustled past Dean on his way to Balthazar’s side.

Dean spun on his heel and tramped back down to the main deck, his steps sure on the swaying planks. His right-hand man, Benny Lafitte, met him at the bottom of the stairs. He was a dark-haired man with a full beard and a stained shirt framed by brown suspenders. “Don’t tell me we’re attacking. At night?” A deep Creole accent colored his speech.

“Yeah, we are. Get the men ready. Americans won’t drop boats.” Though he addressed Benny, his eyes were fixed on the wavering white sails on the horizon.

“Aye.” Benny’s hurried footsteps headed for the hatch that led below deck.

Captain Shurley’s British accent rang out from his usual position at the helm. “Boatswain, hoist the colors, if you please.”

Sam strode to the main mast to comply, long arms tugging the line until the flag unfurled at the top of the mast. On his word, a handful of men raced below deck to the bilge pumps.

The sun sank in the sky, plummeting toward the horizon. The clouds flooded with pink and gold in a ballet of color that took too damn long to settle into dusk. Dean watched his prey draw closer, inching across the expansive distance.

The American vessel did indeed light her lamps at sundown, providing enough light to reveal that her captain was not running from the fight. That was fine with Dean. The chase was his second-favorite part of being a pirate. The chase was thrilling. It was primal and pure and it got the blood pumping in ways that he rarely experienced outside of the bedchamber. The victory, though, was his favorite part. Claiming the spoils after a good, hard fight. He licked his lips, anticipation lighting a fire in his blood.

“Gunners, to your stations!” Bobby shouted. “All hands, prepare for battle.”

The two ships hurtled toward each other, and within minutes they were in long gun range. The  _ Blackbird _ wouldn’t be able to disable her from this angle. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest while the building excitement and anticipation burned in his gut. “She’s in range, Captain,” he said. “Ready to fire on your order.” Shadows danced across the deck in the flickering lamp and starlight. The moon was a veiled sliver in the sky and did almost nothing to brighten the ocean. Even if they managed to hit the American ship from this range, they’d hardly be able to tell in the dark with only the pale circles of light from her lamps to illuminate their target.

“Fire at will, Mr. Winchester,” Balthazar commanded. “And Mr. Singer, assemble your boarding party.”

“Aye, sir.” A feral grin pulled at Dean’s lips. “Forward gunners, light her up!” he yelled. The long nines roared a moment later, first the port, then the starboard. The deck shuddered and through his spy glass he could just make out the twin splashes as the shots fell short. “Reload. Aim higher,” he called.

“Boarding party, to me,” Bobby ordered. The deck of the  _ Blackbird _ was a hurricane of chaos with a calm center in Dean and Bobby. The pirates lived for this, the fight. Dean’s heart pounded in his ears.

Benny sidled up to Dean, his squinting eyes on the American ship lumbering closer. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

The guns shook the deck again. “Yeah. Me too.” Dean winked with a confidence he didn’t quite feel under the coursing adrenaline. “I guess we’ll just have to be awesome like always.” Dean shouted below again. “Starboard gunners, keep at it. Port gunners, get it up, damn it!” The belching roar of cannon fire and shuddering deck answered him. He watched through his spyglass as a gust of salty wind brought the  _ Blackbird’ _ s prey closer.

“Roll out the port carronades,” Bobby yelled. Heavy hatches slammed against the left side of the hull in a string of drumbeats.

“Sam, prepare to trim sails and call your men to arms,” Dean ordered from his position at the railing. “I need you to hold the  _ Blackbird _ and watch our backs.”

Sam nodded.

A flash of cannon fire cut through the night. Then a distant boom as the American ship returned fire. Time stopped and the air went silent. Everyone searched the dark sky for the projectiles tearing through the night. No one breathed. The only sound was Dean’s heartbeat thundering in his ears.

An eternity later, the balls fell short, splashing warm seawater onto his face. He inhaled the bitter smell of gunpowder and smoke-stained sea air.

When he exhaled again, the rhythm of his heart was quiet and everything came into sharper focus, the apprehension and sense of foreboding replaced by the exhilaration of the fight. This was as close to home as Dean ever felt. The thrill of the hunt, the dance with death and disaster was where he belonged. The  _ Blackbird _ approached her prey broadside.

Mr. Singer stood on the main deck with his hands planted on his hips, midway between the quarterdeck and the stairs leading below. “Still the starboard gun. Port guns, unleash hell! Dean, prepare to board.”

Almost show time. As the ships met, Dean realized how outgunned they were. He counted at least twelve guns on her starboard side alone and he hoped that the American crew wasn’t experienced at close combat. It was going to take ropes to get aboard the other vessel, whose main deck was much higher than the  _ Blackbird’ _ s.

Men were going to die tonight. Probably a lot of them.

Dean, Sam, and Bobby met on the deck, which continued to rumble under their boots as the carronades indeed unleashed hell. Sam cursed and ducked an errant splinter of wood, a chunk blown from a skimming hit to the  _ Blackbird’s  _ forward mast.

“We’re going to have to do this fast,” Bobby said. “Dean and me’ll engage their crew. Sam, on our signal, send a raiding party up to pilfer the hold.”

Sam nodded and Dean snatched his brother’s arm before he could dash away. “ _ Send _ a raid, Sam. You keep your ass on the  _ Blackbird _ . Okay?” Sam glared down at him but nodded.

Dean’s men threw grappling lines to the railing of the American ship. Dean stood at the bottom of a line and rolled his shoulders, popping his neck. He would need both hands on the line to get to the other ship. That meant he couldn’t draw his dragon or his dagger until he was over the railing. He ran his thumb over the scrollwork etched into the grip of his pistol. He met Bobby’s hard eyes and they exchanged a nod. That was the signal; they were as ready as they were going to be. Dean planted his feet on the railing of the  _ Blackbird _ , gripped the rough twist of line in both hands, and climbed. His biceps burnt by the time he made it about halfway up but he kept moving, hand over hand.

As they scaled the ship, Dean heard the American officers barking orders. He made out a few words like “hold” and “last man.” Whatever they were hauling, this crew was ready to die for it. Unfortunate, but Dean would oblige if that’s what they wanted.

At last he reached the railing and swung his feet over the side, dropping to a crouch on the deck in time to avoid a pistol shot that missed him by inches. Rising to his full height, Dean swung with his left fist and drew his dagger with his right. The shooter was smaller than Dean and quicker, making it impossible for him to land anything but a glancing blow here and there.

The smaller man kept coming, reaching for Dean’s dragon on his belt. Gripping his dagger tight in his fist, he ran the sailor through the belly, blade angled up for his lungs. Blood poured over his fist and the merchant crumpled to the deck.

“Ishim, no!” cried a deep voice from Dean’s right. It belonged to a man just under Dean’s height with what appeared to be jet black hair. His furious eyes shone blue even in the dim light of the lanterns. They were trained on Dean, a long, menacing knife in his hand.

The new assailant charged him. Their daggers clashed, his fingers caught in the man’s collar. Dean spun on a heel but slipped on the wet deck. The two tumbled down in a heap, grappling all the way in the flickering glow of the lamps. His opponent slashed at the inside of his arm, but Dean was on top and caught his wrist. He slammed the man’s arm onto the deck over and over until the dagger fell from his grip and slid out of sight. The sailor struggled to gain the upper hand and Dean pressed into him with all his weight, his dagger shaking under the strain at the man’s throat. The sailor glared up at him, defiant in his final moments. Dean thought it was generally unsporting to kill an unarmed man, but this guy was ferocious. It was kill or be killed and Dean avoided those blue eyes burning into his soul, focusing instead on the vein throbbing in the sailor’s throat, his target. He pressed his dagger until it connected lengthwise. Skin began to tear and blood, black in the dark, added a grisly fresh sheen to his dirty blade.

A cannon blast pitched the ship, throwing Dean off the man and into the railing, knocking all the air from his lungs. His adversary slipped through a gap and tumbled to the inky sea below. Shark bait. Two down at Dean’s hand, dozens more to go.

“Sam, now!” Bobby called over the din of clanging blades and roaring cannons. Dean had a moment to take in the scene on the deck as he climbed to unsteady feet. His boarding party was engaged with their prey. The ship lurched as the  _ Blackbird’s _ guns tore through her hull. Why didn’t they cease fire? The air smelled of copper and acrid gunpowder.

He caught sight of another merchant leveling a blunderbuss at him from about four paces. Dean spun away with a muttered curse as the weapon discharged, a pellet scraping his back through his coat. “Son of a bitch!” he cried out in a brief flash of pain that pissed him off. He rushed the shooter and tackled him to the deck, wailing on the man with his dagger fist. It only took a few blows for the man to stop struggling under Dean. Three.

The stinging pain at his left shoulder blade blossomed, but the smell of burning wood startled him and the pain faded into the background as his adrenaline surged. He surveyed the scene around him. The fighting was dying down and Sam’s raid was well underway lowering crates to the deck of the  _ Blackbird _ . At least one lantern had been smashed to the deck in the scuffle and the flames licked the wood around a puddle of burning oil.

“Fire!” Dean shouted through the din of battle. “Fire! Back to the  _ Blackbird _ , now!”

Bobby’s hoarse shout echoed the order and the men above deck rushed back over the railing. Dean found the old man, gasping for breath and cradling his arm to his chest. His face was pale in the light of the fire. “Once the deck is clear, get over yourself,” Bobby said. Dean nodded and Bobby limped down the steps below.

Dean ushered his men off the ship. “Abandon ship, the deck is on fire!”

Dean coughed on the smoke filling the air. It choked him, suffocated him, and his chest heaved. He held his linen shirt sleeve over his mouth and nose and tried to take shallow breaths and stay calm while all his instincts told him to flee in a panic.

His men were making a break from the stairs. Some carried crates, all coughing and choking on the bitter smoke as they raced to the railing.

A great deal of the deck was engulfed in flames now and the fire began to eat holes through the wood. When he spotted no more of his men, Dean leapt over the railing. One hand gripping the rope, he repelled back down the hull to the deck of the  _ Blackbird _ . With one strong kick he pushed himself off the side of the ship, over the  _ Blackbird’s _ railing. He landed on his feet, knees bent and protesting under the strain.

Bobby landed right beside him. “Sam, full sails!” he shouted. “Captain, you have to move us away before the fire gets to the powder.”

Captain Balthazar nodded and spun the helm. As the sails unfurled into the wind, the  _ Blackbird _ pulled away at an agonizingly slow pace.

If Sam’s crew hadn’t been so fast with the sails, they wouldn’t have made it.

The minutes flew by and the American ship went up in an explosion that shook the  _ Blackbird _ . The fire was hot on Dean’s face and the smell of gunpowder burnt his nose. The tapping and knocking of wood splinters and shrapnel hitting the deck was a surreal rainfall.

Scanning the deck, his attention landed on Bobby, who fell to his knees. Dean rushed to him. “Bobby! Bobby, man, what happened?”

The old man gasped for breath, blood sputtering from his mouth. Dean slid to his knees at his side and caught him in his arms as Bobby fell backwards. Dean’s heart pounded in his ears, and this time he couldn’t still it. There was a splinter of the American ship’s hull the size of Dean’s hand protruding from Bobby’s chest. By the horrific wet sound of the old man’s labored breathing, it had pierced his lungs.

The roar of the fire raged behind them as Dean cradled him in his arms. “No, Bobby, no, no. Stay with me, please.”

His vision blurred and his eyes burned with tears as Bobby gasped for breath and coughed up thick, black blood. All at once the gasping stopped, the light went out of Bobby’s eyes, and Dean’s world collapsed. Part of him was aware of Sam joining him at Bobby’s side, tears clearing tracks down his soot-stained cheeks. Somewhere in the distance someone shouted about a man overboard, and the brothers ignored the cry because for the first time in their lives, the Winchester boys were truly alone in the world.


	2. Concerning the First Mate

Aside from his brother, Bobby Singer was Dean's closest family. They shared no blood between them but Bobby had been a good friend of their father's, having fought together in the War for Independence. When John Winchester died in battle, Bobby—whose wife had passed away young and childless—sent all the money he could spare to John's widow and her two young boys. After the war, Bobby became Dean and Sam’s surrogate father. Now pushing fifty, the old man had lived so long by fearing nothing but being wary of everything.

The boys’ mother, Mary, had died five years ago, when Dean was twenty and Sam sixteen. Dean was especially devoted to their mother, having assumed the role of master of the household at the tender age of five. He’d clung to his mother’s hand as Bobby told her how sorry he was that John was not coming home. Then this man, whom they had never met before, took Dean’s hand from his mother and promised that he would teach him to be the man of the house. He swore to take care of his mother and little Sammy. Dean had embraced this strange man, who would go on to support Mary Winchester, just as he’d promised. Would teach Dean and Sam the things a father should teach his sons about living off the land and in their new American society, just as he’d promised.

Fifteen years later, Dean should have been married or at least betrothed, but Mary had been ill for many years and he focused on caring for her and raising Sam. The Winchesters weren’t a wealthy family and Bobby took the boys in after Mary passed so they wouldn’t have to be alone. He'd bought their way onto the privateering vessel  _ Blackbird _ under Balthazar’s cousin, Captain Michael Shurley. Dean had insisted on paying Bobby back out of their first earnings, but there was no old salt more steadfast than Bobby. He refused to accept a single penny, which drove Dean and Sam to work even harder. They soon rose through the ranks, proving themselves to be able sailors and dependable men.

Bobby had never been a demonstrative man, but in private moments he'd been known to tell the boys he was proud of them and that their father would have been too. His affection for them was clear in the softness of his manner with them when he was generally a prickly bastard to everyone else.

 

***

 

Dean’s eyes were dry as he removed Bobby’s hammock from its hooks after the chaos of the night. His cheeks felt stiff and sticky from the mixture of old tears and soot that coated them. He tried not to think about the old man’s few belongings hanging in his rucksack nearby. He and Sam would go through it together later, after the funeral.

The funeral. His eyes burned as fresh tears threatened to fall again. Dean cleared his throat and forced his vision to clear as he lifted the last grommet from its hook. He stood there staring at the canvas dangling from his fingers. In his mind’s eye, he relived the moment Bobby had died, the moment the lights were extinguished from behind his eyes. Even as he’d walked away, leaving his brother to have his few minutes alone with the old man, Dean hadn’t seen the planks in front of him, the stairs below his feet. All he saw were Bobby’s scared, dead eyes. All he heard was the wet struggle as he drowned in his own blood. The roar of the sea and the shouts of his men were distant ghosts compared to the fresh horrors in his own mind.

A hand landed on Dean’s shoulder and he jumped, coughing to cover a shout. It was Rufus, the  _ Blackbird’s _ cook and sometime surgeon. Fresh tears glistened on his dark brown cheeks and his eyes were red. He was a black man in his fifties with a greying mustache and short-cropped hair. Rufus and Bobby had been close friends and Dean felt a stab of guilt for selfishly wallowing in his own misery while others suffered. He blinked away tears, refusing to let them fall, and the older man’s image settled into focus again.

“Here you go.” Rufus dropped a spool of thread and a needle into Dean’s hand. Dean stared down at the tools he would use to sew the body into the hammock.

Bobby’s body. Bobby’s hammock. Bobby’s funeral.

“You want me to do it?” Rufus asked in a low voice. There was no judgement, only understanding.

Dean shook his head and closed his fist around the needle and thread and busied himself folding the hammock into a messy wad in his other hand. “No, I can do it.” He ran his thumb over a steel grommet. The pain of the glancing shot to his back blossomed again. His shoulders twitched and he winced.

“You hurt? Want me to look at it?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s just a scratch.”

Rufus shot Dean a skeptical glance but dropped the subject. He didn’t know how long he stood there in silence with Bobby’s friend. It may have been mere seconds or it might have been an hour.

“Will you read his rites?” Dean asked finally. Rufus nodded. “I think… I think it’s what he would have wanted.” Dean gathered himself and cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from the grommet between his fingers. “Well, I guess I’d better, you know…” he trailed off, pocketing the thread and sticking the needle through the cuff of his coat sleeve for safe-keeping. Rufus nodded again and stepped out of his way.

There was still commotion above deck, the burning American ship nearly extinguished by the sea, but Dean ignored it all. In a bastion of motionlessness sat his brother, long legs folded under him, still at Bobby’s side. Dean was in a daze as he made his way back to Sam, a thick fog in his mind that spoiled the thrill of victory. There was no victory this night, only loss. The hold might have been bursting with gold and Dean would have traded it all to have Bobby alive again.

He laid the hammock out on the deck without a word. Sam didn't help him straighten it out and Dean didn't ask him to. The younger man gripped Bobby's hand in his and the only sound that passed between the brothers as the waves lapped at the hull of the  _ Blackbird _ was the occasional sniffle from Sam. “Did you check his pockets?” Dean asked at last, voice rough and quiet, pained to ask the question.

Sam shook his head, eyes puffy and lips pressed into a thin line. Dean nodded and set to the ghoulish task of rifling through Bobby's pockets. Sam had removed the huge splinter from the man’s chest but thick blood had made his grey waistcoat heavy and black in the moonlight.

Where most men carried a pocket watch, Bobby kept a compass. Dean removed that first, a gift from his wife before he'd left to fight the British. It was engraved,  _ Always find your way home to me _ . It was splotched with blood which Dean wiped off on the leg of his trousers before passing it over to Sam. He tried to find comfort in the thought that they were reunited at last, but the notion was cold and empty.

Next, Dean found Bobby's half-empty flask in his inner coat pocket. He took a swig of the rum and offered it to Sam who scowled and recapped it with the hand not touching Bobby. There was a small leather purse with a few coins and a white handkerchief trimmed in fine lace. That was not Bobby's style and the brothers both squinted down at it in the flickering light of the lanterns.

“E.H.?” Sam asked of the blue monogram in one corner, eyes narrowed in bemusement.

“Ellen Harvelle.”

“Were they…?” Sam asked. Dean nodded. “How do you know?”

“Dude, I have eyes.”

Sam still seemed perplexed but held his tongue as he accepted the handkerchief. “What about his ring?”

Bobby hadn’t removed his wedding band since his wife had passed away. Arthritis had left his knuckles swollen and gnarled and Dean didn't think he would be able to remove it now even if he'd wanted to. “He'd want it left on.” He let out a relieved breath now that his task was complete. “Help me move him.”

Sam laid Bobby’s hand on the deck as if afraid to wake him. He situated the pilfered items into his own pockets and rose to a squat behind the corpse's head, working his hands under the upper arms. Dean mirrored his stance at the feet. With a muttered count of three, they heaved the body on top of the hammock, wincing when they all but dropped it with a heavy thud onto the deck. They worked together to fold the canvas over the body, Dean biting the inside of his cheek to keep it together. He hated for Sam to see him cry. He had to be stronger than that.

Settling onto his knees, he extracted the thread from his pocket and the needle from his sleeve. His hands were steady as he squinted in the low light to thread the needle and pierce the doubled ends of the hammock. Before their mother had fallen ill, she’d taught him the simplest principles of mending clothes and he knew enough now to fall into a rhythm whip-stitching the hammock closed. Rufus had given him a dark colored thread that contrasted against the ivory canvas, even in the dark flickering glow of the lamps and the clouded moon. He took his time pulling the thread through the heavy fabric, not worried that his stitches were uneven. Bobby wasn’t going to care one way or the other. He was dead.

Bobby was dead. The words stabbed Dean’s heart. He didn’t realize that his hands shook or that he’d pricked his finger until he glimpsed blood on the edge of the fabric. At first, he thought it wasn’t his, that it was Bobby’s blood. Sam took the needle from him, nudging his older brother out of the way. Dean slid off his knees and crossed his legs under him like a child. His shoulders slumped as he studied his shaking hands, willing them to still to no avail. He studied the blood and soot that caked in the creases of his palms and under his nails. Despite his growing frustration his hands kept trembling. How much of this blood was his? How much was Bobby’s? Was any of it from the fight on the American ship? When had the deck grown quiet?

Dean gave up on his hands and watched his brother instead. The  _ Blackbird _ groaned as she swayed in the calm night. The smoke from the exploding powder keg was far behind them now and the air was clear and cool. He was startled by, of all things, the quiet snap of Sam breaking the thread, the job finished. The body was ready for the funeral in the morning. The brothers slid it across the boards to tuck it in the bend where the railing intersected the deck. Sam handed Dean Bobby’s belongings, they embraced each other sadly, and headed below for a few hours of sleep.

 

***

 

Dean awoke with the rising sun, sore from the fight and hungover from the tears he’d indulged in after Sam began snoring lightly above him. He scrubbed his hands over his face, his eyes swollen under his fingers. He estimated that he'd gotten about three hours of sleep only because he’d reached the point of exhaustion beyond which he couldn't have had insomnia if he'd wanted to. He rose and stretched, his joints popping in a way that would have been decadent if he wasn't getting up to bury the closest thing he and Sam had ever really had to a father.

It was time to bury Bobby.

His brother slept in the hammock above his, brow furrowed in his sleep. “Sam,” he whispered, shaking the younger man's shoulder.

Sam's frown deepened and he stirred. Dean repeated his name and shook him more firmly until his eyes opened, hazel and questioning in the morning light.

“Time to get up,” Dean said.

Sam let out a groan that was part acknowledgement, part unwillingness to face the day, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Okay. Okay, I’m up.” He rolled out of the hammock and to his feet. He ran his fingers through his shoulder length mane of brown hair and slung his arms through a waistcoat that was a dark chocolate color at one point but was now a sun-bleached tan. 

Dean stomped into his boots and shrugged on his felted coat. He felt utterly numb this morning, so deep was his grief. Normally the pale sunlight filtering through the portholes would have thrilled him. Another day, another chance for victory or a chase. But not today. Today he wanted to crawl back into the sanctum of his hammock and the rest of the world be damned. But he had a job to do and the world would keep turning without Bobby, whether Dean consented to it or not.

The men around them stirred in their own hammocks. “Rise and shine, boys,” Dean called into the dusty haze of the morning light. “Mr. Singer's funeral on deck in ten minutes.” There was a smattering of sleepy grumbles and affirmative grunts as feet hit the deck. The Winchesters ascended the narrow steps to the main deck where Rufus met them with steaming mugs of coffee. It was strong and sweet when Dean took his first sip and the hot pewter mug was comforting in his hands. The chilly sea breeze blew the tails of his black coat around his legs. The sun crested the horizon, bathing the deck in pink-orange dawn that was far too cheery for the occasion. He licked his lips and for a moment let himself forget about Bobby. But then he caught a glimpse of the body sewn into the hammock lying on the deck and it all came rushing back to him. The three men stood in a companionable, if gloomy, silence, drinking their coffee and watching the sun climb into the sky.

The sound of creaking hinges drew Dean’s attention behind him to the captain’s cabin. Balthazar emerged, appearing better rested than the three already on deck combined. He’d tied his mousy brown hair with a blue ribbon at the nape of his neck and wore his blue and gold bicorn hat at that same stupid angle. He was dressed in his usual blue coat and knee breeches, the lace cuffs of his shirt peeking from beneath the sleeves of his coat. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he trilled with a cheeriness that set Dean’s teeth on edge.

“Morning, Captain,” Sam responded, his voice sad.

Balthazar stopped short and gestured at the bundle of hammock that held Bobby’s corpse. “Good Lord. Who is that?”

“Bobby Singer, sir,” Dean answered, and if a drop or two of disdain stained the honorific, he decided he didn’t care. What kind of captain didn’t know he’d lost his first mate? A damn shitty kind, that’s what. His hands tightened around his mug and he imagined how sweet it would be to pummel the captain until that damn hat fell off his bleeding head.

The news of his fallen officer at least visibly struck the captain. “The funeral will be this morning, I take it?”

“Aye, sir,” Rufus replied. “I’ll read his rites as soon as the men get topside.”

Balthazar nodded. “Any other casualties last night?”

“Mr. Milligan,” the older man said. This was news to Dean and he stared at Rufus, slack-jawed. “He was still aboard the American ship when the powder went up.”

Somewhere in the growing fog of his awareness, Dean’s brother watched him, eyebrows arched high on his forehead over worried eyes. Adam had been on the boarding party. He replayed the last moments on the ship after he gave the order to retreat. Did he mistake Adam for a member of the other crew? How could he have left a man behind? He barely noticed when Sam snatched his coffee cup before it could fall from Dean’s slackening grip. He staggered away from the group, one hand on his hip and the other scrubbing over his jaw. He needed a shave and the sound of his rough hands over stubble was loud in his own ears.

He had left a man behind. No, he’d left a boy behind. And what’s worse was he didn’t notice. He was so wrapped up in his own personal tragedy that he hadn’t even noticed that Adam wasn’t with them. Guilt twisted in his guts and he swallowed hard to keep his few sips of coffee down. He’d left a man behind and he wouldn’t even get a proper funeral because there was no body to consign to the ocean. He was just gone. Four. Four men he’d killed last night. Plus Bobby. Five.

It felt like someone was strangling him when Sam came up behind him. “Dean, it’s not your fault. It was an accident.”

“No, it was a mistake,” he retorted. “One I should never have made. I should’ve double-checked below. I should’ve--” his voice broke and he fell silent, pounding his fist onto the  _ Blackbird’s  _ railing.

“Come on, don’t do this to yourself. It’s the life, man. It’s dangerous and deadly and most of us die young of something.”

Dean swallowed around the lump of indignity in his throat. “He was too young. He wasn’t much older than you were when Mom died. And it was my fault.”

Sam stood with him for a long minute, the only sound the crashing of waves against the hull. “You have to pull yourself together now. The crew’s on deck.”

Dean sniffed and nodded, schooling his features into somber control before he turned around. Balthazar and Rufus were engaged in a quiet conversation on the quarterdeck and Sam still had some sad puppy expression on his face as he watched his older brother. When Rufus came back to the main deck, Dean raised his voice to address the crew. “Gentlemen, we lost our first mate last night. Mr. Turner is going to read the funeral rites. Bare your heads, men.” He removed his feathered tricorn and watched as the men on deck did the same. Even the captain appeared appropriately sad, holding his stupid fashion statement over his cold heart. Rufus’s voice rose on the breeze and faded into the roar of the ocean without Dean catching more than the occasional word.

He’d left Adam behind and he hadn’t even noticed he was missing.

The thought rattled around in his brain until he had to clench his teeth to keep from screaming. He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket to hide the fist from view, his fingers brushing Ellen’s handkerchief. Oh God, Ellen. He had to tell her about Bobby when they next docked at Nassau.

When Dean looked up at his brother, there were tears in the taller man’s eyes. His own eyes burned but he refused to cry, determined to stay strong for Sam. He still didn’t hear a word Rufus said as clouds crept in over the rising sun, and then the older man nodded to the brothers.

Far away, thunder rumbled and it was time to say farewell.

Sam and Dean squatted down together on either side of the wrapped body and hefted it to the railing. The wind was cold on Dean’s cheeks. “Bye, Bobby,” he whispered. “Thank you for everything.” Then there was a splash in the sea and with four loud drumbeats from the cannons, Bobby Singer was gone.


	3. The Americans

Dean learned about the prisoners over breakfast from Benny. “Didn't you hear the man overboard call last night?” Benny asked.

Dean swallowed his bite of scrambled eggs and conch hash and shook his head. “I was distracted. The man who raised me was drowning in his own blood in my arms.” Bobby’s final moments flashed through his mind and his stomach knotted.

His younger brother frowned, giving Dean a scowl which he figured meant that he was displeased about his attitude. The elder Winchester ducked his head with an apologetic sigh. Benny let the rudeness go and continued. “We took in four or five Americans from that ship. They either got thrown over in the fight or jumped to escape the fire.”

Dean dropped his fork and shoved his half-empty plate away from him, he pressed his palms into his eyes. “Son of a bitch, I didn’t even think about them. Where are the survivors?”

“The brig,” Benny answered. “I was gonna take ‘em some food and water after breakfast.”

“I’ll do it,” Dean said. “Captain said anything about what we’re going to do with them?”

Benny shook his head. “Not to me other than to order two meals a day. You gonna finish that?” He gestured with his fork at Dean’s abandoned plate.

He shook his head. “Knock yourself out.” He rose from the table, stepping over the bench. “I’ll talk to Balthazar after I take some food down.” He thought of all the men who had died last night. Bobby. Adam. Probably more hands than manned the  _ Blackbird _ . And now crammed into the single-cell brig were four or five prisoners whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In the galley, Rufus had prepared a plate of eggs and set aside a loaf of bread with a flagon of water. “This for the prisoners?” Dean asked.

Rufus nodded. “Yep. If the captain asks, that bread was moldy.”

“Moldy bread status, gotcha.” Dean set the bread on top of the pile of eggs. “Balthazar’s not feeling generous with our guests, I take it?”

“Nope. Captain says if they want better fare they can work for it.”

Dean hummed in acknowledgement and, gathering the meager offering in his arms, left the galley, headed for the brig on the lowest deck. The hold was totally below the water line, the small cell positioned between the bilge pumps, which meant that whoever manned the pumps doubled as prison guard. This morning that was a team of four men led by an Asian boy named Kevin, who dipped his head at Dean in greeting. The ship groaned under the pressure on the hull and the pumps sloshed in the otherwise quiet chamber.

The brig was little more than an iron cage lit by the single lantern above Kevin’s head, well out of reach of the bars. It might have been almost cozy for one or two prisoners, in a barbaric sort of way. The occupants were five American men in their twenties and thirties. They had taken off their jackets and waistcoats and slung them over the bars of the cell where they hung stiffly. The five men sat on the deck, leaning against each other and the walls. It was cramped quarters to be sure, and they were ragged and tired, dark circles under their eyes suggesting that they hadn’t slept a wink. One man stood when Dean approached the cell. His hair was short but quite mussed and raven in the low light from the lantern. It framed an oval face with full lips and a sharp nose, but the stars of that face were the eyes. They were so blue that they seemed to glow with their own angry light in the darkness. Dean filed all these details away in his mind under  _ cute when pissed _ .

“I wish to speak with the captain,” he demanded in a voice that was a gravelly basso and Dean recognized it as a more composed version of one he’d heard aboard the American ship the night before. He’d almost slashed this sailor’s throat. For the first time Dean took notice of the deep but mending cut he’d gifted him. It was an angry red but certainly not fatal. Dean felt again the hard lines of their bodies pressed together on the slippery deck and his pulse quickened for a bare moment. It’d been weeks since he’d enjoyed the intimate pleasures of another’s company.

He passed the flagon and bread through the bars, followed by the plate of eggs, which the man accepted and passed to his compatriots. “Well, I’m the master-at-arms, so that’s about as good as you’re going to get this morning. Make that breakfast count. It’s all you get until dinner.”

Blazing blue eyes narrowed in a squint that looked like he was sizing Dean up, trying to find a way to cut him into chum with his mind. “Take us to the nearest port.”

Dean shook his head. “Not likely. We don’t pull into port until the holds are full or the supplies are gone. You’ve got to sit through at least one more raid. Maybe two.”

There was a long pause where the two men stared each other down, daring the other to blink. The blue-eyed man’s eyes softened and he broke the angry silence first. “I am Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel? That’s a mouthful. I’m Dean Winchester.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We lost some men last night so we’ve got some positions open. You don’t have to answer now, but the captain will ask, so think about it. Kevin, keep an eye on our guests.” He spun on his heel and stomped back up to the gun deck without waiting for a reply.

 

***

 

Dean had watch that night so he didn’t have the opportunity to take the prisoners their supper. He spent the long but quiet night alternatively thinking of Castiel and Bobby. One moment he stared into the ocean and heard again the splash of Bobby’s body hitting the water for the final time, the next he thought of how blue Castiel’s eyes were under that unruly mop of dark hair. By the time the sun crested the horizon the next morning, Dean had made up his mind to see Castiel as often as possible. After all, who knew when the Americans would be gone?

The galley was empty of everyone but Sam and Rufus when his morning relief arrived from the crew quarters. He clapped his brother on the shoulder in greeting as he passed through the dining area to the kitchen. Rufus loaded up a plate of salted fish and a loaf of bread. “Taking breakfast down to the brig again?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said and took the plate from the cook, along with another flagon of water and a mug of coffee for himself. It was a struggle to arrange it all in his arms without spilling, but he managed.

“You eating today?” Rufus asked as Dean headed out the door.

“Coffee first,” Dean said.

The bilge pumps stood unmanned and the prisoners unguarded when the master-at-arms came down the final flight of stairs to the brig. The hold smelled of piss and mildew. One of the Americans was awake and stared at Dean as he came into the hold. Castiel dozed with his head against the bars, arms crossed over his chest. The other man nudged his shoulder and Novak woke with a start. He dragged his hands over his face, two days of stubble darkening his chin. He pulled himself to his feet as Dean approached the bars, accepting the offered plate and water.

“Get some sleep?” Dean asked.

Castiel glared at him. “You ask me that like you care about my wellbeing.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe I do. No reason for you to suffer.”

“What a concept. Then let us out of here. We pose no threat to you.” Castiel did that staring thing again and Dean found himself getting lost in the seas of blue burning in the lamplight. He thought he saw Castiel’s eyebrows raise for just a fraction of a second.

Dean licked his lips. “Now you know I can’t do that, Cas.”

“It’s Castiel, if you please,” he retorted and his stare hardened into something vaguely threatening, hands on his hips.

Half a smile tugged at the corner of Dean’s mouth. Yep, definitely cute when angry. “Sorry. Castiel.”

“Tell you what,” Castiel said with a smirk. “Let us out of here and I’ll make it  _ very _ worth your while.” He reached through the bars of the cell and ran a hand down the front of Dean’s coat, his eyes following his own motion that stopped just shy of Dean’s belt.

Dean caught his hand in his own and stroked Castiel’s long fingers. The other man swayed on his feet, eyes falling almost closed for just a moment. The master-at-arms pressed his mug of coffee into Castiel’s hand. “Here. Don’t tell the captain I gave you this but you look like you need it more than I do.”

Novak’s lips spread into a genuine smile that lit up his eyes. He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean. Only the captain calls me Mr. Winchester and I hate it. I never know if he means me or my brother.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel swallowed a mouthful of coffee, eyes closing and lips parting slightly in an expression of pure bliss. “Your brother serves on this vessel as well?”

Dean nodded. “He’s the boatswain. Damn good at it, too.”

“You are proud of him.” Castiel lifted the mug to his full lips and took a conservative pull.

The other Americans merely watched the exchange, eating in silence. For just a moment Dean remembered their presence and made eye contact with one of them, the youngest of the group. Dean nodded a greeting at the boy and the kid just arched an eyebrow in return.

 

***

 

The next night Dean found himself stumbling drunk to the lowest deck to see Castiel. He had no excuse and hadn’t planned on the encounter. One moment he was polishing off Bobby’s flask, the next his unsteady feet were carrying him down and down to the brig. Castiel was the only one awake and he stood when Dean came down the stairs, stretching his arms as much as he could in the cramped cell. “Dean Winchester. Come to not let us out again?”

“Came to talk, is all,” Dean slurred in a hushed voice. He gave his prisoner what he hoped was a successfully flirty wink. “I like talking to you.”

“I like talking to you too, all things considered,” Castiel whispered. He tilted his head to one side. “Are you drunk.”

Dean chuckled softly and held his forefinger and thumb about an inch apart. “Little bit.”

“And how does your captain feel about you drinking on the job?” The prisoner crossed his arms over his chest and gave a look that would have been all kinds of reproachful if it weren’t for the mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

Dean scoffed heavily and waved a hand through the air. “I’m a pirate, dude. We drink whenever we want.”

Castiel uncrossed his arms. “Fair point. Do you have any for me?”

The master-at-arms rifled through his pockets until he found Bobby’s flask, which he extracted and gave it a shake. He frowned mournfully. “Sorry. Next time. Promise.”

The dark-haired man snorted. “If you remember.”

That was a fair point. Dean pursed his lips and shrugged. “Isn’t this the part where you try throwing yourself on my tender mercy?”

Castiel arched an eyebrow at Dean. “And exactly how tender is your mercy?”

Dean stepped so close to the cell he was nearly leaning on it. “That depends. Do you like tender mercy or do you like it hard and rough?”

“Can I not have both?”

Dean smirked. “Hmm, both is good.” He covered a yawn with his hand.

Castiel’s face turned serious. “You should get some sleep, Dean.”

The master-at-arms nodded. “Good night, Castiel.”

“Good night, Dean.”

 

***

 

True to his word, Dean brought Castiel rum the next time he saw him. Castiel accepted the flask that Dean passed through the cell bars, but squinted down at it. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Little after dawn,” Dean answered.

Castiel blinked up at him before passing the flask back, unopened. “Raincheck.”

Dean pushed it back into his hand. “Welcome to the Caribbean. We put that stuff in our coffee. Come on, it’s good for you.”

The other man unscrewed the cap, his eyes on Dean. “You are a very bad influence on me, Dean Winchester.” He knocked the flask back, taking a generous pull and letting out a sigh as his lips left the container. Dean watched the motion intently, eyes focused on Castiel’s lips. He recapped the flask and passed it back again. “Thank you.”

Dean nodded. “You’re welcome. See you at dinner.”

Castiel nodded back. “See you then, Dean.”

As Dean climbed the stairs he heard one of the other prisoners say, “I bet if you offer to fuck him, he’ll let us out.”

Castiel sighed. “I tried that already.”

 

***

 

Balthazar let the prisoners stew for two and a half more days before he asked Dean to escort him to the brig. The master-at-arms had made excuses to check on the prisoners and flirt with Castiel at least once a day. There was a spring in his step that was dulled only by the rum warming his stomach. The prisoners would be offered the opportunity to buy their way onto the crew, Castiel would accept, and he could show his appreciation as he had alluded every time Dean visited.

The captain adjusted his bicorn to a more extreme version of its typical, ridiculous angle. Nose in the air and a self-satisfied smirk on his face, he descended the stairs ahead of Dean, his heels tramping on the boards. When they reached the lowest deck, the prisoners climbed to their feet. 

Castiel stood last, leaning against the bars with arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes were puffy and dark with exhaustion.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I am Balthazar Shurley, captain of the  _ Blackbird _ . Welcome aboard.”

The prisoners scoffed.

Balthazar cleared his throat, smirk faltering. “Yes, well. I’m sure you’re ready to be free of the brig. I’ve decided to grant you the opportunity to serve aboard my ship. The price is right. Work hard and you’ll soon earn your way to full shares.” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Or, you could take us to the nearest port and be rid of us completely.”

The captain’s lips spread in a predatory grin. He sauntered a step closer to the cell, undressing Castiel with his eyes. Jealousy and rum mixed to burn in Dean’s stomach. “Aren’t you a pretty one. And feisty.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Why, oh why, would I want to be rid of you? I’d rather place you on my mantel to watch the ocean in your eyes.”

Dean shoved his fists into his coat pockets. His knuckles rapped against Bobby’s flask. The other prisoners’ eyes snapped to the object of Balthazar’s advances. No one spoke for several of Dean’s angry heartbeats.

Castiel squinted and tilted his head to the side. “You have a fireplace in your quarters? Is that not dangerous on a ship this size?”

A frown flashed across the captain’s face.

“And would that constitute ‘working hard,’ as you put it?” Castiel asked. Dark brows softened over blue eyes.

“That depends very much on your skill.”

Dean didn’t like where this was going. Jealousy smoldered in his chest but he kept his mouth shut. He glared at Balthazar’s temple from his position just out of the captain’s peripheral vision.

Castiel shrugged. “I have nothing else to do. I’m in.” His compatriots muttered assent as well.

Balthazar bobbed his head in a short nod. “Very good. Mr. Winchester, will you show our new recruits to supper? Except you.” He angled a pristine finger at Castiel while Dean unlocked the cell. “You’ll join me.” Balthazar took his prize by the arm and strutted to the stairs. Dean said nothing to the other men as he ascended the steps several paces behind the captain and his new pet.

 

***

 

“Morning, Rufus,” Dean mumbled, head down and eyes mostly closed. “Is there coffee?”

Most days, the cook was the only member of the crew to beat Dean to the galley. This morning the voice that answered him was deeper and not Rufus. “Yes.”

Dean froze in the doorway, cheeks burning. The need for caffeine was what got him moving again. Castiel stretched from his seat at the table to reach a pewter mug hanging with several siblings behind him. He filled it to the brim from a large pot and passed the mug to Dean. It was sweet and strong and perfect, as usual. “Thanks.” Smelling bacon sizzling, he joined Castiel at the table.

Sam’s yawning voice came from the doorway. “Morning, Dean.” The sound of feet shuffling to a stop. “Who’s this?”

“Hey, Sam. This is Castiel. We picked him up off that American ship the other night. Cas, this is my brother Sam.”

Sam easily reached over Castiel to grab a mug from a peg. “Coffee, boatswain?” Castiel offered.

“Hey, you didn’t address me by my title.” Dean’s brows furrowed.

“’Master-at-arms’ is a mouthful, Dean.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Touché.”

“And again, it’s Castiel if you please, Mr. Winchester.” He might have rolled his eyes a little, it was hard to see in the early dawn. Either way he was very clearly put out.

Dean spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoops. Sure thing. Castiel.”  _ Also, cute when merely annoyed. _

Sam’s eyes darted from Dean to Castiel and back again. “Okay then. Hey, Rufus, is that bacon ready?”

“So, what’s your story? You got family back in America?” Dean asked. He sipped his coffee again. Heaven.

Castiel shook his head. “My parents died when I was fifteen. I have two older sisters who married and moved south. I’ve sadly lost touch with them since our parents’ funerals. After they died, I found a position on a trade ship and I’ve been at sea ever since.”

“Where do you call home? Was it that trade ship?” Dean asked.

Sam set down a plate of bacon and toast for each of them. Castiel nodded his thanks. “I have bounced from ship to ship for the last seven years or so. I do not really have a home anymore, beyond the sea itself.”

Dean chewed on a slice of salty bacon. It was crispy with a little fat, just the way he liked it. Damn, could Rufus cook. “Hmm. That must be lonely.”

Blue eyes again turned down. “Sometimes.”

“For me and Sam it’s the  _ Blackbird _ .” Dean’s gaze caressed the bulkheads of the small dining room. “We’ve spent a lot of time with her. I can probably count on one hand the days I’ve spent ashore in the last year. It’d be tough to leave. But we’ll get our own ship someday.” His breakfast gone and the crew beginning to filter in, Dean excused himself and left the galley.

 

***

 

The  _ Blackbird  _ was quiet at night. The only sounds were the gentle slaps of the waves against the hull and the creaking of wood. It was a soothing lullaby for Dean that mingled with the gentle rocking of the ship. But sound traveled more acutely at night, so one heard much of the louder conversations above deck.

Sam and Dean had the misfortune of sleeping under the captain’s cabin. Though the planks between them were thick enough to mask most noise from above them, they couldn’t keep it all in.

Apparently, neither could Castiel.

Some of the men nearest to the Winchester’s hammocks also heard the unmistakable sound of enthusiastic sex. It was only a moment or two before the whistles and the catcalls started. Normally, Dean would have joined them, but the jealous fire still burnt in his chest, warring with the icy grip of loneliness for purchase. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Secrets were hard to keep on a ship this small.

Sam’s voice barked into the darkness. “Shut up and get to sleep.”

If only Balthazar and Castiel would take that advice. Dean rolled to his side and retrieved Bobby’s flask from the pocket of his coat hanging near his head. It was empty before he fell asleep.

 

***

 

Dean found Castiel on deck the next morning before the captain emerged from his quarters. The sun crept above the horizon, bathing the sky in golden pink dawn. A few men milled about but mostly they were alone. A knot twisted in his gut but Dean fought it down. After all, Castiel didn’t know that Dean had heard him and Balthazar having sex last night. And he certainly didn’t know that Dean had dreamt about being the reason that Castiel made even louder noises. And he didn’t need to know, damn it.  _ Be cool _ . “So, I take it Balthazar had you working hard last night.”  _ Okay, maybe not so cool. _

Castiel’s expression was unreadable as he stared over his mug at Dean. “News sure travels fast on this ship.”

Dean snorted. “Half the crew heard you last night. Our bunks are under the captain’s cabin.”

“Ah.”

The master-at-arms glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. “Out of curiosity, how was he?”

Castiel shrugged and fixed ocean blue eyes into his muddy black coffee. “Pleasant enough.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “I knew he was all talk.”

“Well, I would not say it was  _ all _ talk, Dean.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. Castiel held up his hands about nine inches apart and Dean gave a low whistle. “That explains a lot.”

Balthazar emerged from his cabin at last sporting a refreshed glow. Castiel was at his side in an instant, leaving Dean to watch the sunrise alone.


	4. Nassau

For days, Castiel followed Balthazar around the ship, hardly leaving his side, the captain almost always keeping a hand on his new pet. It soured Dean’s stomach and he increasingly found himself in a similar relationship with Bobby’s flask. He stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the quarterdeck, a heat burning in his chest that wasn’t entirely due to the rum. The spectacle before him was both shameless and shameful and he was embarrassed for Castiel. Of course. That was the reason for the pit in his gut. It was absolutely not jealousy or some other such nonsense. He fished the flask out of his pocket and took a long pull.

Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention from the rum. It was Castiel and he gave Dean a friendly nod. Dean turned away and stalked to Sam’s side at the forward mast.

“Dude, you smell like a still,” his brother said.

“Shut up. Is he gone?”

“Who?”

“Cas. Is he gone?”

Sam blinked down at him. “Wait, are you—are you avoiding Castiel?” Dean was silent. “Why?”

“No!” His brother didn’t look fooled. “Okay, maybe.”

“Mr. Winchester,” came the captain’s voice from the quarterdeck.

“Aye, sir,” the brothers answered in unison.

“Not you, boatswain. Mr. Winchester, join me, please.”

Dean closed his eyes to conceal that he rolled them. “Aye, sir.” This time the reply had far less enthusiasm.

Never one for preamble, Balthazar got right to the point as soon as Dean was at his side. “I want you to add Castiel to your boarding party.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. So much for avoiding Castiel. He’d just have to work through his stupid crush. He knew arguing with the captain was pointless but he tried it anyway. “Sir, my men have fought with me for years.”

That damn bicorn hat bobbed as Balthazar nodded. “And you’ve lost one this month. Not to mention poor Mr. Singer.”

Dean swallowed down the enraged guilt that threatened to burst out of him. It was one thing to blame himself for Bobby’s death but it just pissed him off that Balthazar would hold him responsible. “But can I trust him?”  _ Can I trust myself around him? _

The captain narrowed pale eyes at him. “Mr. Winchester, are you denying a direct order?”

Dean clenched his teeth. “No, sir.”

Balthazar hummed. “Thought not. Now acquaint him with your tactics.”

“Aye, sir.”

He found Castiel on the gun deck perusing the small hold that served as the  _ Blackbird’s _ armory. The hold was little more than a closet, tucked away from the gun powder. Since the men kept their personal weapons on them all the time, the armory held only the few extra pieces that they hadn’t sold. Dean crept around the immense support beams and watched Castiel glide his fingers over the barrel of a blunderbuss like he would a lover and Dean found himself wishing to be the weapon. He cleared his throat to announce his presence and the other man snatched his hand back. “Ever used one of those in a fight before?”

Castiel nodded. “I worked with the master-at-arms aboard the trade ships I was on. It was my job to defend against pirates.”

Dean snorted. “Well there’s a switch for you.” A long beat passed where the two men merely stared at each other. Finally, Dean cleared his throat and looked away before the staring got even more awkward. “Captain says you’re joining my boarding party. You up for that? I mean, it’s literally the opposite of what you’re used to.”

“I believe my experiences in battle will translate adequately.”

“Well I got news for you: ‘adequate’ isn’t good enough. You wanna fight with me, you’ve got to earn your place.” He faced a wall of blades—sleek cutlasses and wicked daggers—and continued with his back to Castiel. “The best fighters board first, so until you’ve proven yourself you’ll bring up the rear.” A firm hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around and he stumbled back against the sheathed swords. Anger seethed through him and he balled his fists until the knuckles popped. “What the—.”

Blue eyes burnt up at him. “Dean, you have been nothing but an insufferable ass to me for a week. Pirate or not, being a dick is not a crucial part of your job description. Now tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit, Dean. Is it my relationship with Balthazar? Is that it?” Castiel allowed him to shrug off his grip.

“Yes, okay?” Dean found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the other’s eyes.

“Of whom are you jealous? Me or him?” Castiel asked.

Dean sighed. “Before he let you out of the brig, I thought there was something here.” He gestured with two fingers to take in the minute and shrinking space between them. “Or, at least that there could be. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, dark brow furrowing. “So, what, you think I love Balthazar? Dean, he’s a decent lay and it’s an easy job on a ship I didn’t choose to board. Besides, I don’t believe in love. I’ve seen a lot of things in my life and none of them could make me believe that love is anything but a fairytale. Two weeks ago, I defended a trade ship. Now I’m a pirate who fucks his captain. Sometimes you have to go with the flow.”

Dean removed his tricorn and scratched at his head, suddenly aware of the close heat of the hold. He fingered the long white feather in his hat, avoiding Castiel’s gaze. “I lost two men that night, okay? One was practically my dad. I don’t want to get you killed too.”

Castiel’s lips were a sudden dry insistence on Dean’s mouth. Dean fisted his shirt and yanked them closer together while Castiel’s arms snaked around his waist. His tongue tasted like coffee laced with salt.

_ Secrets are hard to keep on a ship this small. _

Dean shoved him away as suddenly as it had started. “No.” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. “Balthazar claimed you.”

“I don’t belong to anyone but myself, Dean.”

“But he might kill us both.”

Castiel scoffed. “Balthazar is not a killer.”

“You’d be surprised.” God, his eyes were blue. Dean cleared his throat. “Now as I was saying. You’ll board with the last group.”

 

***

 

“Has Balthazar said anything to you about who he’ll pick for first mate?” Dean stabbed at the fish on his plate with a crusty piece of bread.

Sam shoveled a forkful into his mouth and shook his head. He worked the food to one side of his mouth to speak around it. “I figured you’d hear before me.” He swallowed. “But you’re the obvious choice. Or Rufus.” He shrugged. “Or me I suppose.”

“Hey, Rufus,” Dean called into the galley. “You hear anything?”

“Nah-uh. Cap’n’s been mum on the subject with me,” Rufus replied. There was a long pause. “Maybe that new guy. Casti-whatever. Maybe he knows something.”

Sam shrugged and took another bite. “Maybe. Those two are always together.”

The elder dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter. “You don’t think he’d make Castiel first mate, do you?”

The younger’s face scrunched up and he shook his head. “He just got here. No way, man.”

Dean picked up his fork and polished off his lunch. “I’m going to ask the captain today.”

“There you go. Go right to the source.”

“I’m gonna do it now.” He stood, replaced his tricorn on his head, and climbed the stairs to the main deck. Sam was right. It would be one of them. Over the years, Rufus had been clear that he wasn’t interested in serving in any capacity other than cook and surgeon, so it wouldn’t be him. It would make sense for Balthazar to choose someone who’d been on the crew for a long time, like him or Sam. It would make even more sense to choose someone who was already in a leadership position and had the respect of the crew, like him or Sam. And of the two of them, Dean was the more authoritative brother. Sam was an excellent boatswain but he wasn’t the logical choice.

By the time Dean found Balthazar above deck, he’d nearly convinced himself that he was up for promotion. The wind shifted and the sails fluttered loudly overhead. “Excuse me, Captain, may I have a word?”

Balthazar didn’t make eye contact with Dean, keeping them on the horizon. “Of course, Mr. Winchester.”

Castiel stood behind the captain, his arms draped over Balthazar’s shoulders. Dean acknowledged him with a tense nod, pressing his lips together into a thin line to keep from licking them. “I was just wondering if you’d made a decision on who would take Mr. Singer’s place.”

The captain at last pulled his eyes from the horizon. “I have not. It’s not a decision I take lightly and there is a lot to consider. Seniority, respect.” His eyes darkened and stabbed into Dean. “Job performance.”

“Aye, sir.” For a deeply uncomfortable handful of heartbeats the only sound was the wind and the ocean. Dean focused his eyes on the middle distance beyond the ship. The sky was shrouded in grey clouds. The  _ Blackbird _ was in for a storm. “Can I borrow Castiel? I want to go over weapons and tactics with him again before we come up on another raid.”

“By all means. The better prepared he is—that both of you are—the less likely he’ll be hurt or killed.” Balthazar turned in his lover’s arms and branded Castiel’s lips with a lewd kiss. Dean took a swig from Bobby’s flask and averted his gaze. The rum did nothing to settle his stomach and only made the jealousy burn hotter.

The pair finally disengaged and Castiel followed him down to the gun deck, boots clomping on the planking. The gunners sat below playing cards around a wooden crate. “Go get some air, guys,” Dean ordered. The gunners nodded and sauntered up the steps.

Castiel followed the master-at-arms into the small armory. Dean spun to face him without warning, shoving him against the side of the hatch. Anger flared through his blue eyes as Dean crowded into his personal space, his hands balling into fists in Castiel’s white linen shirt.

For a moment they squared off, neither backing down. “What, Dean?” Castiel demanded. His voice was gruff and impatient, blue eyes fierce.

Dean closed the distance between them and claimed an impassioned kiss, chasing the taste of Balthazar away with his tongue. The tension in Castiel’s body changed from that of a coiled snake ready to strike to something more human and pliable. Dean inhaled him, sea salt and sweat replacing the bitter smell of gunpowder and steel that hung on the gun deck. Everything about the kiss was a fight, a competition that was doomed to end in a stalemate, their postures guarded despite the intimacy.

Castiel came to his senses first this time. He shoved Dean away. The sound of their panting breaths mingled with the rhythm of the waves pounding the hull. The storm would be on them soon.

“Dean, this is a bad idea.” Those ocean blue eyes were worried. “Balthazar told me how he killed his cousin. I think part of him enjoyed it. You were right to be concerned.”

_ Secrets are hard to keep on a ship this small. _

Dean’s eyes searched the deck. Empty. Good. He willed his hormones under control and rubbed the back of his neck. It was wet under the collar of his coat. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that.” He swallowed hard and studied the toes of his boots. He needed to focus on preparing for the next job. If something happened to Castiel, it would be his fault and Balthazar would hold that against him too.

Somehow, Castiel saw all this pass behind his downcast eyes. A calloused hand scraped against the stubble on Dean’s cheek, drawing his gaze back up to meet his eyes. “You’re not a bad person, Dean.”

Dean clenched his jaw. How could this man see inside him like that, know that guilt and self-loathing were his default emotions? It only made whatever he felt for Castiel—love, lust, infatuation—swell and he tried to push it aside, the thought that he  _ was _ a bad person suddenly spinning around his mind like a maelstrom.

“A bad person would not have hesitated, would have slashed my throat the second he had a chance. Dean, your goodness saved my life.”

He couldn’t stare into those blue eyes any longer and instead ran his finger along the scar at Castiel’s throat. “Yeah, well, a good man wouldn’t throw his morals out the window at the first opportunity.”

Castiel dipped his head, forcing Dean to make eye contact. “Remember what I said about going with the flow? Being a pirate doesn’t necessarily make you bad.” The heartbeats ticked away to the tune of the sea churned by wind and thunder.

Sam’s urgent voice came from the top of the stairs and Dean took another step back. “Dean, sails. Captain says we’re taking her. Get your ass up here.”

Dean swore. “We should be trimming sails in this weather,” he said under his breath. “Okay, get what you need out of here and meet me on deck.”

“Got it,” Castiel said.

The gunners were coming back down the steps as Dean left the armory. “Talk to me, guys.”

“Dutch, Sir,” said a gunner with knee breeches and bare feet. “Small trade ship with trimmed sails. Captain thinks we can catch her before the weather gets real bad.”

Dean nodded. “Shoot to disable, not kill. Let’s try not to sink her if we can avoid it, okay?” He took the steps two at a time and emerged from the hatch at a jog, skidding to a halt next to Sam. Rain drizzled onto the deck and clouds hung heavy over the afternoon sun. The colors weren’t yet hoisted.

“Full sails, boatswain,” Balthazar called from his place at the helm.

The wind whipped Sam’s shoulder-length hair as he exchanged a nervous glance with his brother. This was worse than raiding at night. “Aye, Sir!” the younger man shouted.

“Mr. Winchester, are we in range?”

He strained to estimate the distance through the rain. “Aye.”

“Then fire at will. And hoist those colors!”

The flag unfurled at the top of the mast, a white skull over crossed daggers on a field of black with the silhouette of a raven positioned over the center of the skull’s forehead. Sam’s men heaved at the rigging until the sails caught the wind full-on.

“Forward guns,” Dean shouted. “Aim high and light her up!” He raised his spyglass to his eye as the guns roared. Both missed. “Again!” The slickening deck rumbled again beneath his feet, momentarily drowning out the sound of the falling rain.

Through an incredible stroke of luck and a tragic case of dry rot, the base of her aft mast exploded in a cloud of splinters and shrapnel. Dean shoved away the memory of the shrapnel that killed Bobby and relished the feeling of his pounding heart and singing blood. “Got her, Captain. She’s dropping boats.”

Balthazar's face broke into a satisfied smirk. “Stow the guns and prepare your boarding party.”

“Aye sir.” Dean relayed the order to stow guns and called for his men. Castiel emerged from below and stood waiting with a pistol and a dagger in his hands. “Sammy, keep her safe in case the Dutch get uppity.”

Sam nodded and barked orders to prepare to defend the deck. The  _ Blackbird  _ came up alongside the Dutch vessel and Dean's crew stood ready with lines and grappling hooks at the railing. He drew his dagger, spinning it in one hand. Officers and a small crew would no doubt remain aboard to attempt to save the cargo. That was just fine with Dean. The fight led to victory and that was his favorite part. He rolled his shoulders and shook out any trace of nervous tension from his arms.

Dean stood with a trio of men closest to the bow of the ship. His eyes caught Castiel’s, standing with Benny’s group. He winked at him and Castiel acknowledged it with a single nod of his raven head. “Grappling hooks! Bring her closer.” The men obeyed instantly, throwing lines across the distance to the railing of the Dutch ship. Four struck true and the men heaved on the lines, drawing the ships together. The remaining crew on the  _ Blackbird’s _ prey managed to cut a line and the three men tugging on it with all their might fell backwards to the deck in a heap of swearing.

Time for the victory.

By the time Dean’s boots hit the deck of the Dutch ship, he held his dagger at the ready in the face of three officers with pistols trained on him. Dean ran at the captain. One of the officers discharged his weapon but missed. Dean caught the captain around the waist and drove him to the slippery deck, sliding a few feet on his back.

He knocked the captain’s pistol away with the hilt of his blade. They grappled, the captain trying to take Dean’s dagger. The captain landed a blow to Dean’s jaw and he tasted copper. He got his hands wrapped around the man’s wrists and pinned him down. “We just want your cargo. It’s not worth your lives.”

The captain glared and snarled in Dutch what Dean figured meant something like “Go to hell.” That’s what Dean would have said if their positions had been reversed.

“Have it your way.” The clomping of bootheels told Dean his party had caught up and were engaging the few officers. He punched the captain hard in the temple and the struggling stopped. He rose and tucked the captain’s thrown pistol into his belt on the way up.

The boarding party had already overpowered the few Dutch who’d remained to fight. Sheathing his dagger, Dean called to the men. “Tie the survivors to the mizzenmast where they’ll be out of the way.”

“Aye,” came the reply. Castiel dragged a man by the armpits to the mast. He wasn’t limping and Dean couldn’t see any blood. Good.

“The rest of you, to the hold. Let’s get this cargo before the rest of the crew decides to be heroes.” He gave Captain Balthazar a thumb’s up. The details of his face were barely perceptible at this distance but Dean could make out the pleased nod.

Men hustled between the ships, Dean catching sight of a few of the crates’ contents. He was surprised that there hadn’t been a heavier guard on the ship. At least one crate was filled with saffron and three more with violet silk, both very rare and valuable. He ordered these to be moved to the  _ Blackbird _ first because he knew her hold was running low on space. He kept one eye on the crew in the lifeboats and the other on his men’s progress. The schooner’s hold was about half-emptied when Benny informed Dean that the  _ Blackbird’s _ was full.

“Let’s get whatever gunpowder and supplies we can find and disengage.”

When the last of the barrels of gunpowder were across the planks, Dean sent his men back to the  _ Blackbird _ . With a quick tip of his tricorn to the officers still bound to the mast, he hopped onto the plank and retreated to the  _ Blackbird _ .

 

***

 

As the British Royal Navy tightened their chokehold on the Caribbean, Nassau had become home to the last few havens for pirates in a sea of unfortunate lawfulness. Nassau was now the only port where goods acquired under nefarious circumstances could be sold without the Navy asking a lot of uncomfortable questions. The best place by far to sell such goods was Harvelle’s. It was part trading post, part gambling house, part inn, and part watering hole. The proprietress was one Ellen Harvelle, a woman that, though old enough to be Dean’s mother, was still curvaceous and full of enough vinegar to give even old Mr. Singer a run for his money.

Or rather, she had, when he was alive.

In short, she was the perfect sort of woman to deal with droves of pirates day in and day out. Harvelle’s had an excellent reputation for fair deals and discretion, and it was here that Dean would help Captain Balthazar attempt to unload the  _ Blackbird’s _ hold.

After two days of sailing, the gleaming stones and guns of Fort Fincastle finally edged into view. Newly built, the fort boasted six guns and a howitzer and was the Crown’s only real hold on the entirety of New Providence island. It was truly little more than a well-armed lighthouse. The sharp angles of the fort didn’t make Dean nervous, per se, but he did cast a wary eye at it as they approached the docks. As they came within sight of the port, Fort Fincastle was lost behind the estates and palm trees that coated the hill.

The harbormaster, an old man with a cane and a limp, waved them to a dock of suitable size for the Blackbird. “Boatswain,” Captain Balthazar called from the quarterdeck. “Trim the sails and prepare to tie off.”

“Aye, sir.” Sam answered. Dean rolled his eyes when he noticed that Sam had elected to work bare-chested today. The harbormaster’s daughter was a fair-haired beauty named Jessica Moore and it was no secret that Sam was positively smitten. Since he had discovered that Jessica spent a lot of time at the docks helping her aging father, he had made it his mission to catch her eye at every opportunity. Though Dean would rather lose his right hand than admit it out loud, there was no denying that his brother was handsome. He was tall enough to dwarf nearly any other man, including Dean. His dark brown hair was a shoulder-length mane just this side of unruly and gave him a kind of boyish charm. His shoulders were broad and his arms rippled with the kind of strength acquired from many years of hard labor.

The sun glinted across the sweat on Sam's tanned chest. Dean was about to roll his eyes again when he saw Jessica. She was staring at Sam with her mouth hanging open in a manner that was just a little past ladylike or proper. “Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered to himself. “It worked.”

Sam leapt from the deck of the  _ Blackbird _ to the dock as they approached, landing with a thud of his boots onto the weather-beaten wood. He caught the mooring line when his man threw it to him and stooped to tie off the ship.

Dean helped Kevin with the gangplank before stomping down it to the dock, a proud and amused grin tugging at his lips. He clapped Sam on one bare shoulder, grimacing and wiping the sweat on his own shirt. “Way to go, Sammy! You got Jessica's attention.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Sam replied. A light blush colored Sam's cheeks and his eyes lit with an excited smile.

Dean chuckled. “Sure, you don't. Now go put a shirt on. If old man Moore sees you trying to chat up his only daughter half naked he'll beat you to death with his cane. And I'll let him.”

Sam scoffed but Dean didn't miss the amusement still written all over his face. “Whatever you say, Dean. Let me finish securing the sails before you 'let’ someone twice my age and half my size kick my ass.”

Shaking his head, Dean muttered, “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, tough guy.” He stomped back up the gangplank, pulling a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket. Climbing the few stairs to the quarterdeck and unfolding the paper, he nodded to the captain.

“Is that the inventory for the hold?” Balthazar asked, holding his hand out expectantly.

“Aye sir,” Dean replied, surrendering the parchment.

Captain Balthazar perused the list, nodding as he squinted in the burning sun. “Provided our good fortune with Mrs. Harvelle continues, we should do well today. Good work, Mr. Winchester.”

 

***

 

Ellen Harvelle ran her business out of an inn situated along the main thoroughfare in Nassau. Plenty of carriage and foot traffic to and from the straw market meant that the bar was busy with relatively orderly patrons. Ellen didn’t cook or sell food beyond what she acquired from her other business trading pirated goods. Occasionally she would offer bananas and mangoes grown on her own estate but truthfully the only refreshments you could acquire from Harvelle’s with any kind of reliability was good rum and beer.

Dean accompanied Captain Balthazar into Harvelle’s that afternoon, both men removing their hats as they entered. Their boots clomped along the wooden floor stained with spilled beer and mud. The bar comprised almost the entirety of the first floor, which Ellen and her daughter Joanna tended. It was Joanna who served a mug of ale to a grimy old drunk, wordlessly swatting his hand away when he tried to grab her rear.

“Why, Dean Winchester, I thought you'd forgotten about me,” Joanna said with a grin.

Dean grinned and embraced the blond woman. “You know I'd never forget about you, Jo.” Once upon a time, Joanna had been attracted to Dean. And Dean, in his younger years, had entertained the idea but he’d eventually realized that she was more a cousin to him then an eligible woman. “Is your mom around?”

Jo nodded toward Ellen's office behind the bar. “She's in back but I'd wait. She's dealing with some nasty business and it's about to get really ugly.”

Just then they heard the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with someone's face and Ellen shouting from her office, “Get out and stay out!”

Dean rushed around the bar and barged into Ellen's office only to be nearly run over by a pirate he didn't recognize. The man clutched his jaw and reeked of booze. Ellen stood in the lamplight with squared shoulders, chin raised in a clear show of pride. She shook her hand out and looked positively furious in a well-cinched green dress that left the tops of her breasts bare. Her chest heaved with the exertion of the tussle but her sandy blonde hair remained untouched and in perfect ringlet curls around her face.

“I guess I shouldn't have worried,” Dean said.

“That asshole was trying to sell slaves in my office. Pirated slaves, can you believe it?”

Dean’s face twisted in a disgusted grimace and he shook his head. He and Ellen shared the same abolitionist’s view on slavery.

Captain Balthazar sauntered into the office wearing his usual self-satisfied smirk. “I've got an inventory for you to look at. If you have the time, of course.”

“For you, Captain Balthazar, I've always got time. Just as soon as this one here gives me a hug.” She and Dean exchanged bright smiles and embraced each other. Dean held a deep respect for Ellen and cared about her a great deal. Though they’d never met, he was certain his mother and Ellen would have been the best of friends. Ellen stood up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “You been doing good, Dean?”

_ No _ . He just hoped she didn’t smell the rum on him. Dean slid his left hand into the pocket of his coat and removed a bundle of cotton and lace. By the way her face paled, Ellen recognized her handkerchief. It was wrapped around Bobby’s compass. They both stared at Dean’s hand as he offered it slowly to Ellen. For a horrible moment, he thought she would refuse it, but she at last accepted it in a shaking hand.

“When?” she breathed.

“Three weeks ago.” Dean’s eyes burnt and swallowing was difficult. “Ellen, I’m so sorry.” What was one to say in a situation like this? Bobby’s death hadn’t been glamorous or particularly heroic. And he couldn’t lie to Ellen, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Did he suffer?”

“Not long. There was an explosion.” Further words failed him and his throat tightened, eyes burning. Dean clenched his jaw but couldn’t look away from Ellen’s stricken eyes.

She swiped at a tear and composed herself. Only the lingering sadness in her eyes revealed her pain. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Balthazar unfolded the parchment in his pocket and handed it over with a flourish. “I think you’ll be rather interested in the contents of my hold.”

Ellen held the parchment at arm's length and made a show of squinting at it. Dean knew she would buy everything on the list, but not without the usual song and dance. She'd hem and haw over one or two items and Balthazar would act exasperated. Dean would give her a charming smile and then Ellen would cave and purchase the lot.

Ellen frowned and tapped a finger on one line of text. “I can't do anything with furs, Balthazar, you know that.”

“Of course you can,” Balthazar argued. “There are lots of people passing through on their way to colder and more civilized places.”

Ellen gave a skeptical hum, one eyebrow arched high. “Spices haven’t been moving well lately… oh, you have saffron.”

That was Dean’s cue. He adopted his most charming smile and laid one rough hand on Ellen’s bare arm. “Now, Ellen, you know that you and Jo deserve new stoles. There’s some lovely rabbit pelts that would really bring out your eyes on those cool nights.” He threw in a wink for good measure.

Ellen sighed and handed the parchment back to Balthazar. “Oh, alright. I’ll take all of it. You know I can’t resist you boys.” She pulled a wooden stool from under her desk and perched herself on it. “Let’s work out the particulars, Captain. Dean, it was good to see you. And I’m sorry about Mr. Singer.”

“Me too.” Dean made his way back to the bar. Joanna irritably swatted at the same drunk again, more forcefully this time. Dean’s temper flared. Never one to let a lady get mistreated, he stomped over to the drunk and tapped him hard on the shoulder.

The drunk—who didn’t have the decency to uncover his head upon entering the bar—turned bleary, angry eyes up at Dean. “What’da ya’ want?” he slurred.

Dean’s teeth creaked with how hard he clenched his jaw. “Touch the lady again, pal, and I’ll throw your ass out of here.”

“Mind yer bus’ness,” the drunk grumbled, turning back to his mug.

Dean pounded two fingers forcefully into his shoulder.

“Ow!”

“That lady  _ is _ my business,” Dean growled, leaning low into the drunk’s face. “And what I’d do to you is not half as bad as what her mother will do to your balls with a blunderbuss if she sees you laying hands on her daughter.”

That got the drunk’s attention. He gulped and sheepishly removed his cap. “Apol’gies, miss,” he said to Jo, who gave him only a stern nod in reply.

“That’s more like it,” Dean said, standing back up to his full height. “Can I get a mug of ale, please, dear Miss Harvelle?” he said sweetly, stopping just short of batting his eyes at Joanna.

Jo scowled at Dean as she filled a mug. She hated it when he took it upon himself to defend her honor and Dean knew it. She’d probably give him a tongue lashing for it later, but his mother would roll over in her grave if he ever stood by while a woman was treated badly. Not to mention what Ellen would do. All the charm in the world wouldn’t save him from the wrath of Ellen Harvelle if he let her daughter be harassed by patrons right in front of him.

Dean was starting on his second beer by the time Captain Balthazar and Ellen emerged from the office. “I’ll arrange for delivery tomorrow, then,” Balthazar said. “The usual arrangement?”

Ellen nodded and shook the hand Balthazar offered her. “That’ll be fine.”

“Very good. Mr. Winchester, enjoy your evening.”

Dean nodded. “Aye, sir.” He watched the captain leave, squinting into the setting sun that darted in through the open door. Balthazar nearly sauntered right into Sam, who stepped out of his way, nodding in greeting.

When the door closed behind Sam and Dean’s eyes adjusted again, he saw that Jessica Moore was on his arm. Her pale blue dress was cinched tight at her narrow waist and she carried a fan which she waved slowly in her face. Though she smiled, she looked around the room as if she felt as out of place as she looked. She met Sam’s eyes, though, and her smile deepened. Sam led her gallantly to a small table and seated her before excusing himself to meet Dean at the bar. Sam held up two fingers to Jo and, his back turned to Jessica, let a full grin break out across his face.

“Sammy, I can’t believe you brought her here. And that Old Man Moore let you out of his sight with her.”

“He, ah, doesn’t exactly know where we are.” Sam winced and rubbed the back of his tan neck with one large hand.

Dean barked out a laugh. “Well, at least you’re wearing a shirt now.”

Sam paid Jo for the beers and made his way back to Jessica, who smiled up at him. Dean shook his head. She was way out of Sam’s league, but no one had told her that. Well, it wasn’t going to be Dean to shatter her delusions.


	5. Revelations

Dean stood in the empty cargo hold, eyes on the back of Harry, a young man who hauled out the last crate. Castiel stood next to Dean. As soon as he was out of sight, the two men were on each other. Dean tugged on that unruly dark hair, their lips crashing together. Castiel shoved him into a dark corner and devoured his mouth.

One of them moaned. Or both of them. Dean didn’t know, didn’t care.

He pivoted and drove Castiel into the adjacent wall with a thud, breath rushing out of him. “Wish I could take you right here.”

Castiel panted. “Too risky.”

Dean whined, “I know.”

“Now shut up and kiss me, Dean.”

“Say my name again.” Their bodies pressed together, hard lines of tense muscle.

“Dean,” Castiel growled.

His eyes rolled back in his head and he moaned, claiming Castiel’s mouth again.

The sound of someone clearing his throat from the doorway startled them and Dean sprang back. It was Harry, appearing scandalized.

They each grabbed one of Harry’s arms and hauled him into the hold. “Now you listen to me, Spangler,” Dean said in a harsh whisper. “You saw nothing. This never happened.”

Harry winced.

“I will make your life an absolute hell and then I will end it, do you hear me?” Dean rumbled. “Not. A word. Ever. To anyone. Got it?”

The younger man’s wide eyes darted from Dean to Castiel and back again. At last he nodded, then shook his head hastily. “Not a word,” he squeaked.   

Dean glared down at him, sizing him up. At last he nodded and shunted Harry backward toward the door. “Now get out of here and start playing dumb.”

Harry nodded again and scurried out of the hold.

 

***

 

Captain Balthazar crowded the entire crew onto the main deck of the  _ Blackbird _ , said he had an announcement. This was it. He was finally going to announce his decision about the first mate. Dean and Sam exchanged encouraging glances; they both knew it would be Dean. Everyone knew that the  _ Blackbird _ stayed afloat because of the Winchesters, and of the two, Dean was the logical choice. He’d been an officer the longest and Benny would make a fair master-at-arms in his stead.

The crew chattered amongst themselves, mostly regaling each other with much-exaggerated stories of sexual conquest over the few days ashore. Dean preferred to listen to the obnoxious crying of the gulls overhead to the bullshit his men were selling. Balthazar called for silence and the chattering died down, except for the seagulls. Rude ass birds.

“Gentlemen,” he called. “Before we shove off, I have an announcement.” He paused dramatically, eyes floating over the crowd. Somewhere on deck someone coughed. “As you know, we recently lost our first mate.” Balthazar’s gaze paused on Dean, who swallowed hard. Uncertainty crept into Dean’s mind and he fought to push it down. No, he was a shoe-in for the job. “I have given Mr. Singer’s replacement long consideration and have come to a decision. Your next first mate is a man who has proven himself a trustworthy, able member of this crew.” Another pause. Drama queen. “Your next first mate is… Castiel Novak.”

Even the freaking gulls were silent.

Dean and Sam gave each other wide-eyed expressions. Dean’s jaw may have hung open.

Oblivious to the cannonball he’d just thrown at his men, Balthazar concluded his speech. “I know you will put your faith in him as I have. Now.” He clapped his hands together once. “Boatswain, let’s shove off, if you please.”

Sam made quick work of regaining his composure. “Mr. Spangler, untie the mooring line and haul in the gangplank. On the booms, untie those sails.” His words faded into the crashing waves in Dean’s ears. He called to the gunners to prepare for a readiness inspection and followed them below to the gun deck.

 

***

 

Dean successfully avoided Castiel for three days before he finally cornered Dean in the galley at supper. He tried pretending that he didn’t notice the newly minted first mate come in and focused on his slab of salted pork and potatoes. Maybe if he ignored him, Castiel would give up and go away.

“Dean, a word, please.”

_ Fail _ . “Aye, sir. Have a seat.”

Castiel remained standing. “I’d rather speak in private.”

Dean stared up into his eyes, chewing a large bite. He swallowed and washed it down with a gulp of ale. “Me and Sam always eat dinner last. Sam’s already done. Just us.”

“I’m not here!” came Rufus’s voice from the galley.

“And Rufus isn’t here.” He stabbed at a potato and kicked out the bench opposite him. “You wanna talk, let’s talk.” Dean went back to studying his dinner. “You can start by explaining why you didn’t tell me what Balthazar was planning.”

Castiel finally sank onto the bench, looking around as if he didn’t believe that they really had the galley to themselves. “I didn’t know that this was Balthazar’s intent.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “For nearly a month, the only time you’re away from him is to put your tongue down my throat and you expect me to believe that Captain tell-all Balthazar didn’t say a word?” He rolled his eyes. “That’s rich.” He stabbed at his potatoes so hard they crumbled.

“He never said a word to me and I didn’t ask, Dean. I assumed it would be you or Sam.”

Dean squinted across the table. “But you hoped it’d be you, right?”

Castiel’s eyes were wide and sincere but Dean was too angry to trust them. “No! I would rather be on your boarding party.”

Dean shoved the last piece of pork into his mouth. “Well.” He swallowed and downed his beer, standing. “Bobby always led the boarding parties. Congratulations,  _ Sir _ , you got your wish.”

Castiel’s head drooped and his shoulders slumped. “Would you stop calling me that when it’s just us?”

Rufus stuck one dark hand out of the galley to take Dean’s plate and fork. He handed them over and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d hate to walk the plank for disrespecting the Captain’s favorite pet. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Novak, I’ve got cannons to polish.” He stalked past the first mate and out of the galley.

Okay, so maybe Castiel was telling the truth, maybe he didn’t know anything about it. If he was being honest, it wasn’t Castiel or even Balthazar that he was angry with, but himself. It was his own fault. He should have been the one to evacuate the hold of the American ship. Bobby was already hurt, Dean should have insisted that he go back to the  _ Blackbird _ first. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been in that exact spot and the shrapnel would have missed him. Even Adam might be alive if he’d been more responsible. Pirate or no, there were certain expectations to be met, and Dean was missing the mark.

The freedom of piracy only went as far as your captain was willing to let out your leash.

The cannons gleamed but Dean scooped some polish onto a rag and set to work on the abandoned gun deck anyway. It was a habit of his when he couldn’t sleep and he’d found himself down here more nights than not lately. He scrubbed a carronade with his right hand and knocked back his flask with his left. At least down here he didn’t have to listen to Castiel’s and Balthazar’s nightly ritual of boisterous hanky panky.

The sun was long set and Dean’s only light came from the lantern hung overhead. He wiped away sweat from his brow with a felted cuff and drained the last of his rum. His head swam and his eyelids grew heavy, belly warm and tingling under the booze. He sat with his back against the hull, right arm resting on one bent knee, and listened to the ocean’s night song. Gentle waves lapped at the hull behind and below him and the ship creaked out its melody.

His chin hitting his chest awoke him with a start. He’d only barely nodded off and the gun deck was still deserted. He dragged a hand over his face, grimacing at the smell of polish. Climbing onto unsteady feet, he staggered up to the crew quarters, stopping at a barrel of dingy water to rinse the polish off his hands and splash his face. Sam snored quietly in the hammock above Dean’s. Even the captain’s cabin was silent. Shucking his coat and hanging it alongside his tricorn, he toed off his boots and rolled into his hammock with a soft groan. In a matter of minutes the  _ Blackbird _ rocked him to sleep.


	6. Playing Favorites

The sun melted into the horizon, bathing the main deck of the  _ Blackbird _ in red-gold light. The crew took turns going below for supper, which Dean was looking forward to. Fourteen hours he’d been on his feet with barely a break. All this after another mostly sleepless night and he was beyond exhausted. If he sat down he’d probably fall right to sleep. He wouldn’t need to worry about insomnia tonight, that was for certain.

“Night watch,” Castiel called from the quarter deck. “Mr. Lafitte. Mr. Tran. Dean Winchester.”

Dean blinked up at Castiel dumbly. Surely, he’d heard him wrong. No way. He trudged up the few steps to his side. “Can I talk to you below? Sir.”

Castiel extended an arm, gesturing for Dean to lead the way. He led them down to the lowest deck. Harry Spangler manned the bilge pumps and with a stern look and a thumb hooked over his shoulder from Dean, Harry scampered up the stairs. They hadn’t been alone on this deck together since the day Balthazar ordered the Americans released from the brig.

Dean rubbed his forehead with one hand, eyes on the floor. “I’m useless for night watch. I haven’t slept in three days. I’m dead on my feet, man. Can’t you get Spangler to take my spot? Or Garth?”

Castiel leaned against the hull with his arms crossed. “I can see that you are tired and it is most unfortunate. I drew up a systematic rotation schedule and it is your night. I’ve been given to understand that Mr. Singer was rather… haphazard in how he assigned watch. But I will not play favorites, Dean.”

Dean didn’t mean to throw the punch, but he did. He was so drained that there wasn’t much force behind it and it didn’t even bloody Castiel’s nose. The first mate wasn’t so burdened and when Dean pulled his fingers away from his own lip, they were red. “What the fuck, Cas!”

Castiel crowded into Dean’s personal space with clenched fists. “Be grateful that a bloody lip is all you got for that. How do you think it would look to Balthazar if the master-at-arms ended up in the brig for a week?”

“Don’t you dare pull the appearances card on me, bed warmer.”

Rage flashed across Castiel’s face, darkening his eyes and turning his mouth down in a snarl. He fisted Dean’s shirt and slammed him back against the cage of the brig with enough force to rattle his teeth. “Watch your damn mouth. Or I will pummel you until you can’t speak.”

Dean saw red. He hated to be threatened. “Whatever you say, bitch.”

Castiel slapped him hard with an open hand. It stung like all hell and Dean was certain there was a red handprint on his cheek. That was to say nothing of the hit his ego took to be struck like that. “Don’t. Test. Me.”

They stared each other down for so long that Dean wondered if Castiel would try to kiss him. He didn’t. Somewhere under the exhaustion and the anger Dean felt a little heartbroken that so much had changed so quickly between them. “Now get your ass on deck, serve your watch, and don’t be late for your shift in the morning.” Castiel pushed off Dean, spun on his heel, and stomped back up the stairs.

Dean gripped the cell bars until his knuckles stood white. He kicked the door with a loud clang. What if there was a raid tomorrow and he was too exhausted to fight? Who would he get killed this time? Himself? What about Sam? Hell, his little brother had just followed his lead when they came aboard the  _ Blackbird _ , it wasn’t really his choice. Maybe if Dean died, Sam would leave the ship and marry the harbormaster’s daughter. Between the two of them they probably had enough money saved up for Sam to start a decent life ashore.

The bilge pumps sloshed on either side of Dean and the water stank of algae. A bit of rust flaked off the bars under his hands. They’d need to be painted soon. Not that Balthazar cared. The freedom of the pirate life was directly related to how high up the ranks you were. If you weren’t the captain—or sleeping with him—you were still bound to your leader’s will. As much as Balthazar relied on his crew to run a profitable ship, even more so the crew relied on his amiable nature for their livelihoods. Sure, there was always mutiny….

Dean shook that thought out of his head. He didn’t want the  _ Blackbird _ , as much as he loved her. She was Balthazar’s. He wiped the rust from his hands onto his pants, nodding to himself. He needed his own ship. That’s all there was to it. His own ship, with Sam as his first mate. The perfect freedom for them both. No more night raids, no more attacking in the rain. Just good, common sense piracy. Okay, maybe not  _ good _ , but profitable.

His boots echoed on the stairs as he mounted them. He’d serve his watch tonight. Between the three of them he could probably catch a few hours’ shuteye. Then when they raided next, he’d capture the ship rather than just rob it. All they had to do was not sink her or cripple her too much. Then it was just a matter of convincing Balthazar.

 

***

 

Weeks passed before opportunity knocked. The stormy season was ramping up to be a real ball-buster and as the sun sank to the horizon, distant thunder rumbled to the north. The wind tore at the sails and Sam’s men fought the booms. “Captain,” he called, his voice shaking as he strained to hang onto a line. “Should we trim sails?”

“Not yet, boatswain,” Balthazar answered. Dean shook his head. So reckless.

Squinting over the starboard railing, away from the sun, Dean could just make out a lonely fore and aft schooner with trimmed sails and a French flag flying from the aft mast. She’d do. He scanned the deck for Castiel and wasn’t surprised to find him draped over Balthazar. His usual spot. Whatever, he’d just tell them both at the same time. Excitement brewed a warmth in his belly.  _ After all this waiting, finally! _

He took the steps to the quarterdeck two at a time, thunder echoing his bootsteps. The sky was grey and the clouds hung low. Looking to the north, he saw the rain shadow. The wind was bringing it right to them. It was already nearly upon the French ship. Perfect.

“Sir,” Dean said. Castiel’s eyes were so damn blue in this light. He and the captain faced him, the first mate appearing far less annoyed than the captain. “There’s a ship to starboard with trimmed sails.”

Balthazar looked immediately to the right. Castiel’s eyes lingered on Dean for just a heartbeat too long before he too turned toward the ship.

The captain gave a bored sigh. When he spoke again it was to Castiel. “What do you think, darling?”

It was a great feat of self-control that Dean didn’t roll his eyes.

The first mate paused before answering, squinting at Dean, his lips pursed into a contemplative pout. “I think Mr. Winchester has a plan. A good fight will help the crew stay alert during this storm.”

Balthazar dismissed Dean with a flick of his wrist. “Very well, Mr. Winchester. We’ll take her. Whatever you’re planning, for your sake I hope you take proper care of my first mate.”

_ Gag me with an anchor. _ “Of course, sir.”

Castiel caught up to Dean at the foot of the stairs on the main deck and stood close enough to speak softly. “What are you planning?”

“I’m going to capture the ship,” he said with absolute confidence. This would work. “Without firing a single gun.”

Ocean blue eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s lips spread in a wide grin. “Gunners, on deck!” he shouted.

 

***

 

“For the record, Dean, I think this is crazy,” Castiel said just above a whisper. His breath was warm on his ear and Dean suppressed a shiver. “But I think it’s going to work.”

Rain abruptly began pelting the deck in hard patters, the water cold on Dean’s hands and face. He checked that his dragon was loaded and watched Sam’s men lower two dinghies into the water. “Damn right, it will.” He winked at Castiel before he could remind himself that he was flirting with the enemy. He cleared his throat and refocused his attention on Sam’s men.

The boats hit the water with a dull splash. The rain fell harder. Dean buttoned his coat and pulled his tricorn low over his eyes. He tied a line to the railing over one of the dinghies, Sam coming behind him to check the knot, needlessly. Dean met his eyes and saw that worry wrinkled his brother’s forehead just a little, but his jaw remained firmly set.

He grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him into a quick hug. “This will work, Sammy.” They pulled away and Sam nodded. Dean reached into his coat and pulled out his spyglass which he handed over to the taller man. He spoke quietly in Sam’s ear, the overpowering sound of the driving rain keeping the conversation private. “I’ll get this ship for us and you’ll be my first mate. We’ll be free before you know it, okay?”

Sam nodded again and accepted the spyglass. One of the Americans from Castiel’s last ship gave the boatswain a black bundle. “Thanks. Here, Dean. Hoist it after you capture her.”

Dean tucked the flag under an arm. “Don’t light the lamps and keep the colors down. If the French are watching I don’t want to tip them off.”

“Got it.”

He flashed a confident grin as he stepped away. “Boarding party, to the boats!” he shouted. Leaking rainclouds blocked the remainder of the waning sunset, plunging the sea into early night. The two little dinghies would be damn near impossible to spot unless someone was looking for them specifically.

Men repelled down the hull of the  _ Blackbird _ until only Dean and Castiel remained on deck. The latter blew a freaking kiss to Balthazar, who pantomimed catching it. Dean rolled his eyes as he swung his legs over the railing, the wet line gripped tightly in his hands. Down he climbed, excitement burning away any discomfort from the rough rope sliding through his hands. His boots hit the deck of the boat, rocking it just a little, and Benny held out a steadying hand to his master-at-arms. Dean handed over the flag Sam had given him and Benny shoved it into his coat.

Dean picked his way toward the stern of the boat, a little more than a dozen sets of eyes trained on him. “Okay, we row up as quiet as we can. Just follow her lamps. Rowers board last. Stick to the plan and remember: absolutely no killing after they surrender, got it?”

There came a smattering of muttered, “Aye.”

Castiel addressed the pirates in both boats. “This is Mr. Winchester’s plan. He has command of this mission.”

Dean tried not to let his face betray how surprised he was. He hadn’t expected the first mate to be so rational and…what was the word? Not humble so much as willing to share authority. It was the first time Dean could recall either of them conceding power to the other.

He stared into Castiel’s blue eyes which were alert and calm and lingered long enough on Dean’s that he felt a little flare of heat in his stomach. “Thank you, sir,” he said simply. “Let’s move out.” The rowers pushed away from the  _ Blackbird _ with their oars and they were off.

It took over an hour to reach the French ship. Rain water stood in the dinghies and the cold wind blew the thunderheads in from the north, drenching the already dark sky in pitch. Only in the flash of lightning could Dean catch glimpses of anything but the French lamps. Perfect.

The boats reached the aft of the ship together and Dean motioned his men to hold steady. It was easier said than done with the waves ricocheting off the hull of the ship, tossing the dinghies. Dean stood carefully in his boat, Castiel in the other. Both men gripped lines and grappling hooks. They’d spent the entire trip to the French ship tracking the pattern of the storm and the sea and now they used it to their advantage.

They waited silently.

A flash of lightning. As one they threw the hooks. No one breathed. The hooks landed true on the railing, the sound masked by a clap of thunder.

Perfect.

Men tied off the lines to the boats as Dean and Castiel began to climb. Up and up and up. Hand over hand, boots planted onto the wet and slick hull.

Dean’s heart thudded in his ears, in time with the waves rocking the ship. The storm raged. The men climbed.

They paused with the deck just below eye level. It was nearly deserted. Only the helmsman stood on the quarter deck, where they were. Dean nodded at Castiel and they scaled the railing as lightning bathed the ship in angry white. Their boots hit the deck under cover of thunder.

The slick deck lurched with the waves and the wind despite her trimmed sails but Dean kept his footing. He took sure steps to the helmsman, drawing his dagger. He sensed Castiel behind him slightly and to the right and he thought he made out the scrabbling sounds of his men clambering over the railing. He had to trust they were there.

The helmsman never saw him. Dean crept up behind him. His left hand went around to cover the man’s mouth, his right with the dagger to cut his throat. Blood poured over Dean’s hand and the hilt of his blade. The helmsman fell in a silent heap, dead eyes staring wide and surprised at him. Castiel was wrong after all; he was a bad man. He fought nausea, letting adrenaline carry away the image of the dead helmsman’s accusatory stare from his mind.

A sailor on the main deck saw them and opened his mouth to shout as he ran for the bell. Castiel shot him in the chest from about fifteen paces. Their luck ran out. Sailors turned toward the gunshot which wasn’t concealed by thunder.

Pirates swarmed the deck. Dean flung blood from his dagger and charged. The pounding of boots behind him told him that his men followed suit. Dean leapt over the railing from the quarterdeck to the main deck, landing in a crouch. Castiel and Benny came down the steps and intercepted an officer in a bicorn even more ridiculous than Balthazar’s.

Dean didn’t hang around to watch the scuffle. He was right in front of the captain’s cabin. Shadows moved behind red curtains hung over the glass in the door. Dean bolted for the door and tried the knob. It turned easily. Dean swung open the door and barged in, the hatch slamming behind him with a clatter.

The captain froze and stared wide-eyed at the intruder. His hands were at his waist, buttoning his pants. His crisp white shirt hung open and untucked, lace cuffs askew. He was a scrawny little man that made Kevin and Garth look big.

“Do you speak English?” Dean asked.

The captain nodded but said nothing.

Dean tossed his dagger to his left hand and drew his dragon with his right. He pulled the hammer back and leveled the barrel at the captain who swallowed hard. “This is my ship now. Do you surrender?”

“ _ Oui _ , I surrender.” The little man trembled. “Only please, spare my men.”

The taller man ignored the request. “Button up and come here. Slowly.”

The captain buttoned his pants with exaggerated slowness and finally approached Dean with his hands in the air, palms out to show they were empty. He grabbed the captain by the back of the neck and shoved him through the door, dragon leveled at the little man’s head.

“Attention!” Dean shouted.

Off toward the port railing stood Benny, who caught Dean’s eyes, nodded, and fired a single shot of his pistol into the air. The fighting stopped. Dean shoved the disheveled captain roughly up the stairs to the deserted quarterdeck. “Do all your men speak English?”

“N-no.”

“Benny,” Dean called. “Translate for me.”

“Aye.”

“I-I could translate f-for you,” the captain stammered.

“And have you ordering your men to turn on me?” Dean scoffed. “Yeah, right.” He licked his lips and raised his voice so he could be heard over the rain and retreating thunder. He scanned the crowd of men on the deck below him. The French looked ragged, worn out. The pirates beamed, faces alight with pride and excitement.

“Your captain has surrendered,” he shouted. Benny echoed him in deeply accented French. “Your ship is mine. If any of you can’t sail under a Jolly Roger, we’ll gladly show you to the brig.”

Benny’s lilting French ceased. A handful of men spat something Dean didn’t understand. He looked to Benny. “They won’t play, boss.”

“Grab them,” Dean ordered. The nearest pirates took their weapons and seized them roughly by the arms, shoving them toward the hatch leading below. “Benny, will you take the captain to the brig, please? And bring the keys to me.”

“You got it, boss.” Benny loped up the stairs two at a time, pulled the flag from his coat, and grabbed the captain roughly. He handed Dean the flag and all but carried the former captain down the stairs.

Dean returned his attention to the men watching him from the main deck. “Congratulations, you’re all pirates now.” The rain let up as he strode to the French colors still flying from the aft mast. He unsecured the line and tugged until it descended the mast. He unclipped the flag from the line and let the wind take it to the sea below. Attaching the  _ Blackbird’s _ flag, he hoisted it as high as it would go to cheers from his men on the main deck.

He squinted into the inky night toward the south and the  _ Blackbird _ . Within a minute her lamps flickered to light. A proud smile tugged at Dean’s lips and he couldn’t help cheering with his men. They’d won. It had worked.

Castiel was beaming as he approached Dean. “You did it. I’m impressed.”

Dean’s cheeks heated at the praise and he rubbed at the back of his drenched neck. “Permission to drop sails and head back to the  _ Blackbird _ ?”

The first mate nodded. “Granted.”


	7. Expendable

The trip back to the  _ Blackbird _ was short over the calm sea, the storm gone and the midnight sky clear. The only indication that there had been a storm at all was the cold wind which still gusted from the north. The moon hung full and fat in the sky with the barest wisps of clouds stretched thin over it. Dean’s hands caressed the worn wood of the helm and he breathed in deeply the salty breeze. He was so close to his goals, to his freedom. To a better life for Sammy.

They pulled along broadside to the  _ Blackbird _ to cheers from her crew. Sam’s voice was the loudest. “I can’t believe you did it, man!”

“You actually pulled that off!”

“Didn’t fire a single gun!”

“Legendary, Dean! They’ll tell tales about this for ages!”

Dean beamed, a smile that felt like it would split his face right in two. With a gesture, Benny took control of the helm and the master-at-arms climbed the rigging. He took a loose line in his hands and leapt, swinging across the distance and to the deck of the  _ Blackbird _ with a triumphant thud of bootheels on wood. He was greeted first by Sam’s long arms around his shoulders. No sooner had his brother released him than the crew crowded around to slap him on the back, the shoulders, the arms, anywhere they could get a hand through the press.

At last the throng of men parted enough that Dean could make his way to the quarterdeck. The sight of Castiel whispering in Balthazar’s ear was the first indication he had that the first mate had followed him to the  _ Blackbird _ . Dean climbed the stairs slower than usual, savoring every moment, the grin still stretching his lips. He paused at the top of the stairs. Balthazar looked up from his hushed conversation with Castiel and smirked at Dean in a way that looked more than a little smug. As if through  _ his _ actions the French had been bested and their ship captured.

Dean’s smile faltered as he glanced from Balthazar to Castiel and back again. The first mate wore an unreadable mask. There was something behind those blue eyes that Dean couldn’t quite decipher and it worried him. But no time for that. Now for the moment of truth.

“Captain, the French have surrendered,” he said and a hush fell over the deck of the  _ Blackbird _ .

“So it would seem,” Balthazar answered from his position at the helm. “Any casualties?”

“None of ours, sir.”

Balthazar nodded once, that ridiculous bicorn bobbing. “And what do you propose I do with another ship? The  _ Blackbird _ is larger and faster by the look of that rigging.”

This was it. Dean squared his shoulders and approached the captain. “Let me captain her, sir.”

Balthazar blinked as if he’d been slapped in the face by Dean’s words. “You? Wouldn’t it make more sense to promote the first mate? Besides, of the two of you, Castiel has never gotten any of my men killed.”

“Aye sir, but I’m the more experienced pirate. Let me sail her, choose my officers, and you get ten percent of my take, right off the top.”

Balthazar scoffed. “Preposterous.”

Castiel spoke up, his lips ghosting over Balthazar’s ear. “Think about it. You’ll finally be rid of him. He’s expendable. And if he dies or his ship sinks in battle, well, at least you’ll still have the  _ Blackbird _ . And me.” He kissed the captain’s neck and Dean turned away, his temper flaring hot under his drenched collar.  _ Expendable? _ Whatever remaining affection he might have felt for Castiel evaporated under the heat of that betrayal.

Balthazar growled out a pleasured hum that Dean could have gone his entire life without hearing. “But ten percent is hardly worth the effort of replacing officers.” He looked at his master-at-arms then. “I want fifty percent.”

_ Be firm! _ Dean shook his head. “That doesn’t leave me enough to feed my men. Fifteen.”

“Forty.”

“Eighteen.”

The captain scoffed. Castiel wrapped his arms tightly around his waist and purred into his ear again. “Be reasonable, lover.”

After a long pause in which something subtle shifted behind Balthazar’s eyes, he said, “Twenty-five.”

“Twenty,” Dean said, crossing his arms.

Balthazar stuck his hand out. “Done. But I approve your officer choices.”

As he reached across the distance to shake on it, a big, goofy grin threatening to take over Dean’s face. He caught it just in time to morph it into a pleased smirk. “Deal. Thank you, sir.” They released each other’s hand. “My brother will be my first mate. Mr. Lafitte my master-at-arms, and Mr. Fitzgerald my boatswain.”

Balthazar shook his head. “I need Mr. Lafitte. Take Spangler.”

Dean swallowed down the noise of disgust he wanted to make. “I’m running a captured ship with a surrendered crew. I need the stronger arms.”

The smaller man waved a dismissive hand. “Then I concede. What will you call this ship?”

Good question. Dean cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the dark sea. “Benny, what’s she called?”

“ _ Sirène Robuste _ ,” came the reply.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean called back.

“Literally,” Benny answered with laughter in his voice. “The  _ Buxom Mermaid _ .”

“Works for me.” Dean hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the new ship. “What he said.”

 

 

***

 

As Dean shoved his meager belongings into his rucksack he couldn’t help whistling a little to himself. Sam chattered excitedly to him, the elder only partially listening.

“Wait till I tell Jess. She’ll be thrilled. I can’t wait to see the ship.”

Dean cinched up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Ready?”

Sam shouldered his own bag, a wide grin lighting his eyes. “So ready.”

They climbed the steps to the main deck together, Benny and Garth behind them. They emerged to the lamplit topside to another heroes’ welcome and applause. Dean looked up to the quarterdeck. Balthazar still seemed rather pleased with himself and Castiel wore an unreadable mask, blue eyes staring down at Dean. He suppressed the urge to make a rude gesture and instead turned his attention to the plank stretching across the gap between the ships. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and stepped onto the plank. He faced Balthazar’s crew and gave a grand wave.

“Mr. Winchester, I expect you in Nassau in six weeks’ time,” Balthazar called from the stairs to the quarterdeck.

“Aye sir, six weeks.” He crossed the plank and leapt to the deck of the  _ Buxom Mermaid _ . His ship.  _ His ship. _ He dropped his bag by the door to the captain’s cabin and ascended the steps to the quarterdeck slowly, hands caressing the railing with reverence. A Frenchman stepped away from the helm and Dean took his place. The worn wood felt good under his rough hands. This was the only love he needed, a ship and the horizon and his brother by his side. Freedom. He didn’t need Castiel and his blue betrayer’s eyes. Just this. His  _ Mermaid _ .

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” Dean called. “Full sails. Let’s get out of here.”


	8. The Buxom Mermaid

There came a brief rap at the door to Dean’s cabin, followed by the creaking hinges as Sam let himself in. Dean looked up from his desk to see his brother wearing a stupid grin. He couldn’t help the little smirk tugging at his own lips. “She took it well, I take it?”

Sam nodded, stopping just short of a giggle. “Yeah. She wants to see the ship. Do you mind?”

Dean set down his book and leaned back in his chair, lips pressed together in consideration. He winced dramatically. “I dunno, Sammy. There’s that whole bad luck superstition, and I don’t know how the men would react. I mean, they were honest merchants six weeks ago when we first started out, but there’s no telling how they’ve changed.”

“Dean.” The smile was gone except for the light in his little brother’s eyes.

“I’m kidding,” Dean said, spreading his hands to either side and standing. He angled a finger at Sam. “But you are not having sex in my cabin.”

“Neither are you, Dean, what’s the difference?”

Dean punched the taller man in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

Sam threw his head back and laughed.

“Now go. Woo your maiden fair before I change my mind.”

“Thanks, man.” The door swung shut behind Sam’s retreat.

Dean shook his head, smiling fondly, and for about the tenth time that day traced the cabin with his eyes. There was a modest secretary to the left of the hatch. An old wooden chair with a velvet cushion stood at an angle where he had abandoned it. A small dining table took up much of the free space in the middle, set for dinner. The bed with its hard mattress took up the entirety of the far bulkhead, a pair of portholes positioned in the back wall. A carving of a, well, rather buxom mermaid hung over the head of the bed that reminded him that Sam was right. They’d been at port nearly a week and Dean had yet to christen his cabin. But the thought of breaking in the mattress with some pretty harlot or fop from Nassau just didn’t have the same appeal as it might have before.  _ Before Castiel. _

He rubbed his forehead and tried to ignore the sudden twist of loneliness in his chest. Sinking into his chair, he tried to think of anything but blue eyes and raven hair. Tried not to think about the feel of their bodies pressed together, lips crashing in the heat of some corner or hold aboard the  _ Blackbird _ before prying eyes found them.

Three sharp knocks against the glass startled Dean. “Yeah,” he called. The door swung open and Balthazar waltzed in wearing his ridiculous bicorn and sporting an obnoxious grin. “Well hey, sir, glad to see you made it to port safe.”

“Indeed.” Balthazar’s gaze slid around the room unashamedly. “My, how… homey.”

Dean’s indignant temper flared but he swallowed it down. “She’s not much to look at, but she’s mine.”

A single eyebrow rose high on Balthazar’s forehead. “Well. Somewhat.”

He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, but Dean held his tongue.

“And how were your first few weeks without my guidance?”

_ Your guidance, my ass _ . “Profitable. My hold’s full of goods that Ellen should like.”

Balthazar nodded, eyes narrowed in a speculative stare. “We shall see, then, won’t we?”

 

***

 

As they entered Harvelle’s, Dean and Balthazar removed their hats. The bar was full of patrons that had Ellen, Joanna, and a long-haired man—Ash, Dean remembered—running themselves ragged. The elder Ms. Harvelle looked up when the door slammed shut behind the two pirates.

“Well, if it isn’t Dean and his captain. Good to see you boys.” Ellen came around from behind the bar to throw her arms around Dean and shake Balthazar’s hand.

Dean licked his lips, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “Actually, I’m a captain now, too.”

Ellen planted a fist on one hip. “You did it. You got your own ship. I’m damn proud of you, boy.”

Balthazar cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s my ship. Mr. Winchester here still sails for me.”

Ellen’s face remained neutral and she nodded. “I guess we have some business then, don’t we?” She gestured with her right hand toward her office behind the bar.

The three turned back to the door as it swung shut again. Castiel crossed the room to take Balthazar’s hand and kiss his cheek. Dean glared down at the planks beneath his boots. Ellen stared up at the dark-haired newcomer. “You must be Mrs. Harvelle,” Castiel said, offering his right hand.

Ellen shook it. “And you are?”

“Castiel Novak. I’m first mate aboard the  _ Blackbird _ .” He threaded an arm around Balthazar’s waist and regarded Ellen with a polite smile.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Ellen gestured to the office again. “To business?”

 

***

 

Handing over Balthazar’s twenty percent  _ hurt _ . It hurt almost as much as watching Castiel do stupid little things like run his fingers through Balthazar’s hair or rest his chin on the captain’s shoulder. While they were doing business, no less. As if he hadn’t called Dean expendable almost seven weeks ago. What an ass.

Now Dean and Sam sat at the small table in his quarters dividing the shares. Sam blew out a breath that made the hair over his eyes flutter. “It’s going to be tight feeding the men on this.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, I know. You’d be amazed how much twenty percent actually is. And Balthazar wasn’t happy either.”

“It’s a fifth, Dean.”

“I know!” He threw his hands up and leaned away from the table. Dean drummed his fingers on the knotty wood for a long minute and glared down at the coins like they were to blame for this mess. “We can put my share into the overhead cost. Will that help?”

Sam considered it. “Maybe? I mean, it won’t hurt, that’s for sure.” A moment passed with only the sound of the waves lapping against the hull of the  _ Mermaid _ . “What if—“ Sam began. “What if we trim a little off all the shares. Tell the men we did worse than we did?”

Dean scowled at his brother. “Lie to the men?”

“I don’t like it either, but it’s an idea.”

Dean shook his head vehemently and stood, rounding his chair and gripping the back of it until his knuckles stood white. “Absolutely not. We’re not lying to the men. Not ever.”

Sam lifted his hands in surrender. “Alright, forget I said anything. But, Dean, we  _ have _ to do better next time. When does Balthazar want to meet us here again?”

“Three months.” Dean chewed on his lip. “We have three months to make a profit we can survive on.”

 

***

 

Behind the helm of the  _ Buxom Mermaid _ was Dean’s favorite place on his ship. He could finally understand why Balthazar hardly left the quarterdeck. The wind lashed his face, made it feel as if the ship was rocketing across the sea. The waves were rough here and he kept a firm grip on the wheel, making subtle course corrections now and then. The power over his own destiny was intoxicating. Until the worry set in. The worry that, though one more raid would fill her holds to bursting, the  _ Mermaid _ wouldn’t carry enough to satisfy Balthazar and take care of his own men. His leash may be much longer now, but it was still around his neck. Maybe he could renegotiate his terms with Balthazar when they met in Nassau again. Surely, he’d agree to ten percent if Dean just explained the trouble.

_ Be reasonable _ , Castiel had said before. Maybe he would convince Balthazar that twenty percent was just too high. But that would mean accepting help from the guy who’d called Dean “expendable” to his face. Dean’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth and his knuckles stood white on the helm. But what the hell did that bunk-warming son of a bitch know, anyway? Unbidden, he found himself thinking of dry lips and hot breath on his mouth, some bulkhead digging into his back. It pissed him off so much that he ground his teeth again.

Sam’s voice came from his side abruptly. “Dean, sails.” He followed his brother’s gesturing finger to the horizon. White sails and a Dutch flag strained in the wind.

Dean fought back thoughts of Castiel and his damned betrayal and threw his attention into the task at hand. “We’ll take her.”

 


	9. Judas and the Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where that dubious consent comes into play. I don't think it's too bad, but I want you to be forewarned.

“I’m not asking for the ocean here, just that you reduce your take to ten percent,” Dean said.

Balthazar shook his head. As usual, Castiel was draped at his side. “We had a bargain, Mr. Winchester. If you can’t fulfill your end of it, then I will place someone else in command of the  _ Mermaid _ .”

Dean sighed. “I can’t feed my men on 80% of our haul. Hungry men don’t make good pirates.”

“On the contrary, they make excellent pirates. Hungry men are more ruthless, quicker to the kill. You need but show them the target and they are ready to take it.”

Dean ground his teeth. He was growing more frustrated by the minute but he fought to keep it to himself. “But hungry men are also easier to kill. I can’t pillage with a dead crew.” Silence passed between them for a long beat. “You want me to fail, don’t you?”

Balthazar ignored the question, hooking his arm through the crook of Castiel’s elbow. “Twenty percent, Mr. Winchester. Not a penny less.” The two men left Dean’s cabin. Sam came in behind them, shutting the door.

“How’d it go?”

Dean was silent. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat down at the dining table. Sam sat across from him. Finally, Dean spoke. “We’re not paying him anymore after this trip.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re supposed to meet him here in three months. We’ll be back in two. Ellen doesn’t really like him, so I’m sure she’ll cover for us. With any luck we’ll be able to avoid him for a good long while.”

“So just like that?” Sam asked. “We’re betraying Balthazar?”

Dean scoffed. “We’re pirates, Sammy. It’s what we do.”

 

***

 

Two months later, Dean met with Ellen privately and told her his plan. She shook her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, boy. I’ll cover for you but if you mess up, you’re on your own.”

Dean expected as much. He stooped to embrace Ellen. “Thank you. Now about this haul.”

 

***

 

Dean and Sam grinned like foxes all the way back to the dock. The wind smelled sweeter, the sun shone brighter, and the sea sparkled more in the afternoon light. One hundred percent felt a hell of a lot better than eighty. He caressed the railing with his right hand as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the deck. She was all his. He mounted the steps to the quarterdeck, savoring every clomp and creak of his boots on the polished deck. He ran loving fingers over the helm, a salty breeze whipping the tails of his coat behind him and peppering his face with spray from the sea. Dean closed his eyes and savored the feel of the sun warming the cool droplets on his cheeks. He and Sammy had made it, they were free.

Dean gathered his men on the main deck of the  _ Buxom Mermaid _ and, with Benny as translator, gave the crew important instructions. “While we’re in port, you are to keep a very low profile. No brawling, no stealing in Nassau. We’re sailing under our own colors now.” That was Sam’s cue to lower the  _ Blackbird’s _ flag and hoist the new one that Dean had had made in Nassau. It was a white silhouette of the same mermaid from Dean’s cabin with a dagger between her teeth on a field of black. “Because of this, your shares are all bigger than last time. Two days of shore leave, then we’re shoving off. Remember: keep a low profile.”

 

***

 

The crew of the  _ Buxom Mermaid _ successfully avoided Balthazar and the  _ Blackbird _ for nearly a year. The sky was dark and ominous when the  _ Mermaid _ pulled into port at Nassau alongside the blond and blue lines of the  _ Blackbird _ . Thunder rumbled and the wind howled, tossing the little schooner. Dean thought about turning back, but his men were tired and there was certainly a hurricane brewing on the horizon. Better to be at port than at sea when the storm hit, even if there was a potentially violent confrontation waiting for him.

Dean took a deep breath and ordered his men to bring them in and double the mooring lines. “I want plenty of slack on those lines, boys. She’s going to get tossed and I don’t want her breaking loose. Benny, you’re in charge. Sam, with me.” The storm was pretty freaking nigh, not leaving Dean enough time to make a deal with Ellen and arrange for delivery. But he’d be damned if he’d let Balthazar get the drop on him. The best defense is a good offense. Dean and Sam disembarked from the  _ Mermaid _ and headed straight for the  _ Blackbird _ . Once on deck the crew halted as one and stared at Dean and Sam as if they were a pair of ghosts.

Kevin broke free from the stupor first and shook Dean’s hand, then Sam’s. “Boy am I glad to see you guys. We thought you were dead.”

“Well, not yet, anyway,” Dean drawled. He looked around and saw no sign of Balthazar or Castiel. “Where’s the captain?”

“Ashore. He and the first mate are hunkering down.” The look that settled onto the young man’s face was downright pissed.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean he left you alone out here with this storm coming?” He shook his head. “What a son of a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.”

Anger bubbled in Dean’s chest. A captain never leaves his crew in danger. “God damn it. Okay, find some volunteers to stay and run the bilge pumps. Get those mooring lines covered and doubled. Then the rest of you get ashore and find shelter until the storm passes. Sam, you know this ship better than anyone. You stay and keep her afloat.”

Sam nodded, jaw firm. “What are you going to do?”

Dean turned back toward the gangplank. “I’m gonna give Balthazar a piece of my mind.”

 

***

 

Ellen embraced Dean when he strode into her office. “Good to see you, boy, but Balthazar’s here.”

“I know, I’m berthed right next to the  _ Blackbird _ . Where is that coward?” Dean clenched and unclenched his fists, his shoulders puffed up and itching for a confrontation.

“Upstairs, first room on the right,” Ellen said.

“Thanks.” Dean took the stairs two at a time and pounded on Balthazar’s door hard. “Balthazar! Come out of there you chicken shit. How dare you leave your crew in this storm like that? You slimy son of a bitch, get out here now!”

The door swung suddenly open to reveal Balthazar with a pistol angled at Dean’s chest. “ _ I’m _ the son of a bitch? We had an arrangement, Mr. Winchester.” He pulled the hammer back. “I ought to shoot you here and now.”

Dean swept his hand up, colliding with Balthazar’s pistol and sending the shot harmlessly into the ceiling. He swung his other fist and connected with Balthazar’s jaw. Balthazar dropped the flintlock and Dean kicked it into the hall. “Our arrangement is terminated, Balthazar. I don’t sail for you anymore.” With that, he turned and stomped back down the stairs.

 

***

 

Back at the  _ Mermaid _ , Dean sent everyone else ashore to find shelter. The wind howled and the schooner tossed and tugged against her mooring lines. He went to the lowest deck, tugging off his wet coat angrily and hanging it from a hook that was missing its lantern. His feathered tricorn he placed on top of it, the feather sad and limp under the weight of the rain. His boots sloshed in standing water on the deck, only about an inch deep in most places. Thunder crashed and the wind howled. Above deck, the  _ Mermaid’s _ bell clanged angrily.

Fucking Balthazar. He’d planned to have Sam stay to help him run the bilge pumps, but because Balthazar was an inept coward, his brother was busy saving the damn  _ Blackbird _ and her crew and Dean was alone. He gripped the bilge pump handle so hard his knuckles turned white and his boiling anger made turning the pump handle easier. He heaved, throwing himself into the task. The pump sloshed and gradually the effort cleansed his ire. He couldn’t have asked his men to stay behind anyway, it was far too dangerous. But Dean had just won his freedom, he wasn’t going to let it sink now.

Thunder crashed and the tide hammered the  _ Mermaid _ , bumping now and then into the dock. The single lantern swung on its hook, sending shadows billowing about the hold like angry ghosts. The sound of bootheels on the deck above him caught his attention and Dean drew his dragon, ready for the intruder. He was halfway to the stairs when Castiel’s rumbling voice called down. \

“Dean, are you here?”

He was too stunned to answer. Why the hell would Castiel be on this ship when he could be warm and safe in bed with Balthazar?

“Dean!” Castiel stomped down the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Castiel was soaked. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his hair and the tip of his nose. His white shirt was practically transparent and sticking to his arms and chest in what Dean refused to admit was a rather appealing manner. “I came to help you.”

“Don’t need your help.” Dean holstered his dragon and went back to struggling against the axel of the bilge pump. His exhaustion was growing thicker, making the task more difficult than it had been when his rage was fresh.

“Really? Looks like it from here. Or does this particular pump work best when it’s not turning?”

Another crash of thunder, directly overhead. Dean didn’t look up. “I didn’t say I didn’t need help. I said I didn’t need  _ your _ help. Now piss off.”

“Are we really doing this now?” Castiel called over the pounding waves and thunder. “Quit being such a stubborn ass and let me help.”

“What do you care?” Dean shouted. “I’m expendable, remember?”

There was a long pause where neither man said anything. Dean struggled to turn the pump, gritting his teeth with the effort. “Is that what you’re angry about?” Dean refused to answer. “I said that to  _ help  _ you, you colossal dick.” Castiel was down the stairs now and reached for a handle on the bilge pump, only for Dean to slap it away.

“Didn’t need your help then, don’t need it now. Get off my ship,” Dean grumbled. He lost his footing on the wet deck and would have fallen flat on his face were it not for Castiel’s strong arms around him. Dean righted himself, pushing hard away from the other man. Castiel reached out with his right hand and grabbed the front of Dean’s shirt, fisting the fabric and dragging the taller man back. They glared at each other for five, six angry heart beats and then Castiel surged forward to claim Dean’s lips in a rough kiss. It was loud and full of fire. Dean pushed away again. “You taste like  _ him _ .”

Castiel yanked hard on Dean’s shirt until their noses nearly touched. “Then do something about it.”

It was a dare that he couldn’t back down from. Dean tangled his fingers into Castiel’s wet hair until he hissed with pain. He claimed another rough kiss, this one all scraping teeth and tongues. The power struggle was on with a vengeance and Dean was playing to win. He chased away the taste of Balthazar with his own tongue.

Pulling away suddenly, he used the hand still fisted in Castiel’s hair to jerk the other man’s head to one side, exposing his throat. Dean latched his mouth onto the wet flesh where neck met shoulder and sunk his teeth in. He didn’t quite taste blood, but his prey cried out. “Ow, fuck!” Dean released Castiel and eyed his handiwork. His teeth marks were satisfying dents in the tanned skin and it was sure to leave an ugly bruise.

Castiel caught Dean’s hair in his own fist and returned the favor. Pain blossomed from the bite until Dean was certain his skin had been broken. He pushed at Castiel’s shoulders but it was like shoving against a brick wall. A wave hit the hull of the  _ Mermaid _ and the slick deck lurched, sending the two men down in a tangled heap with Castiel on top. Dean thought of the first time they met, how he’d pressed his body into this furious sailor, held a knife to his throat. Castiel had the upper hand this time, and when he pushed his hips into Dean he felt the hard line of an erection next to his own full cock.

But Dean wasn’t about to lose. He planted one boot on the deck, hooked the other across Castiel’s ankle and shoved with all his might, rolling the shorter man onto his back beneath him. He claimed his mouth again, dragging his teeth over Castiel’s lower lip. Dean pinned him down with one strong arm, the other working the buttons of Castiel’s trousers. Blue eyes met his, nearly black with his lust as he yanked Dean down for another rough kiss. More thunder. The bell clanged desperately in the on the main deck. Dean pulled away from the kiss to work Castiel’s wet pants down off his hips, Castiel lifting himself off the deck to help.

“Balthazar get you all ready for me?” Dean growled into his ear.

Castiel’s rumbling reply set Dean’s cock to throbbing. “Give me your best shot, pirate.”

Thunder crashed and Dean flipped Castiel onto his stomach. The shorter man pushed himself up to all fours. “What are you waiting for, Dean? I’m right here.”

Dean shimmied his pants down and positioned himself behind Castiel’s ass. He spat into his hand and slicked up his length, pressing into Castiel’s entrance. He moved slowly but firmly, gripping Castiel’s hips hard until he was fully encased in the other man’s tight heat. It had been a lonely year, so this wouldn’t take long, but Dean was going to savor every moment as he took his victory. He pounded into Castiel, thrusting hard with his hips and yanking back on his hips to slam his cock into Castiel at a grueling pace. The other man let out a sound that was somewhere between a moan and an angry growl and Dean could tell by his shudders that he was hitting his prostate on every hard thrust. Castiel had his own cock in his hand and pumped it furiously. Dean’s groans were a staccato punctuation at every thrust. Then Castiel grew still and cried out, his ass clenching down and then Dean came hard, filling Castiel. The victory was his.

The two men collapsed on each other, panting. “Now,” Castiel said. “Can I help you?”

Dean’s chest heaved with his labored breathing. “Fine,” he grumbled.

 

***

It took three days for the storm to pass, and Dean and Castiel took turns sleeping with their backs propped against the bulkhead farthest from the smelly bilge pump. They could only catch a couple hours at a time and the work of keeping the water level down and the  _ Mermaid _ afloat was hard. Finally, the thunder receded and stayed gone, and the two men climbed onto the calm deck to survey the damage. The stillness that hung in the air was surreal, the gentle breeze blowing through Dean’s sweat-soaked hair was juxtaposed against the carnage of the coastline.

Palm trees that once lined the shore were gone. Small boats peeked up from the crystal-clear water, sunk and broken beyond repair. Dean carefully inspected every inch of the  _ Mermaid, _ Castiel beside him all the while. The masts had held firm, and the sails were still tied tightly to the booms. Turning his eyes up to survey the harbor, he noticed the empty berth on the port side. The  _ Blackbird _ was gone.

Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach and he ran to the port side railing and peered into the water. Only sharks and a few barrels were down there. “Sam!” he shouted to the deserted beach. No answer.

“Your brother wouldn’t have stolen the  _ Blackbird _ ,” Castiel said. “But Balthazar will accuse him. The men have been… unsatisfied of late.”

“Can’t say I blame them. I’d be pissed too if my captain left me to die in a hurricane. Maybe Sam is at Harvelle’s.”

Castiel nodded and gave Dean a tender kiss on the lips. It was chaste and sweet and the opposite of what they’d shared three days ago in the hold. “I’ll go with you.”

Dean would have rather run into town, but he was too exhausted to do more than trudge his way through the muddy streets. People were just starting the process of cleaning up after the storm. Some buildings were all but demolished. Only Fort Fincastle was undamaged. Harvelle’s was in good shape, considering, save for one gaping hole in the roof where a palm tree had gone through it. The tree looked to have been lifted from the ground by a gust of wind and planted into one of the tenant rooms, its green fronds dripping water. The weather made Dean feel off balance. The wind was calm and the clouds hung low and close to the ground, as if too tired to be any higher. Ominous was the only word for it. He burst through the door of Ellen’s bar, Castiel hot on his heels. Ellen looked up, startled, a mop handle sliding from her hands and clattering onto the floor.

“Dean! What’s wrong?” she said.

“Sam. Is he here?”

Ellen looked from Dean to Castiel and back again, eyes worried and calculating. “Haven’t seen him. Why? What happened?”

“He was on the  _ Blackbird _ but she’s gone.” Dean was out of breath, his chest heaving.

Castiel spoke up. “Balthazar?”

“Gone. The second the storm lifted.” Dean’s crew trickled out of several of the rooms upstairs, no doubt drawn to the commotion.

Dean whirled to face Castiel, the pieces clicking together in a horrifying pattern. “He wouldn’t.”

Castiel nodded gravely. “He might. He was furious with you. Even when we thought you were dead, he was angry. We both know what he’s capable of.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swore. Adrenaline made him forget how tired he was. He dashed out the door, a thunder of bootsteps on stairs only a moment behind him as his crew followed. It would have warmed his heart if it wasn’t already burning with rage, his throat tight with a panicked kind of worry for his brother.

“How are you going to find him?” Castiel asked from Dean’s side.

They were running full tilt back to the dock and Dean’s voice broke from the hard footfalls and his panting breaths. “He’s only got a couple hours on us. The  _ Mermaid _ is faster, and he always runs the same route. Right? That hasn’t changed?”

Castiel shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then hopefully we can catch him by the Cays.”

Back at the dock, the Harbormaster and his daughter were taking stock of the damage. Jessica caught Dean’s furious eyes and held her hands out to stop him. “Captain? Where’s Sam?” Her eyes searched the crowd of panting men behind him, brow furrowed with worry. “I was hoping to say goodbye before you leave.”

Dean gasped for breath. “Gone. Taken.”

Jessica gasped, her hands covering her open mouth. “By whom? When?”

“Balthazar. A few hours ago.” He laid a rough hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll get him back. Don’t worry.”

She nodded, lower lip quivering just a little, and stepped out of the way.

Finally to the  _ Mermaid _ , Dean barely slowed down as he mounted the gangplank, Garth already shouting orders to untie the mooring lines. The men moved quickly, drawing in the gangplank and loosening the sheets. Dean took the stairs to the quarterdeck two at a time, turning the helm away from the dock as his men struggled to catch the wind.

Castiel was at his side. “What are you going to do when you catch him?”

“I’m going to get my brother back.” Dean turned hard eyes to Castiel’s calculating blue gaze. “And then I’m going to kill Balthazar.”

“What if Sam is dead?”

Dean swallowed hard, grateful for the helm under his hands to steady his shaking fists. He looked back to the horizon. “Then I’ll kill him slowly.”


	10. Headwinds

Dean lost count of the hours before they reached Grand Cay, but the sun had crested its zenith and was sinking toward the horizon. He hated the sun in that moment, hated his race against it, hated its oblivious course to the sea. But not as much as he hated Balthazar. The sun couldn’t feel the sting of his rage, but Balthazar could. If Sam were alive, he’d be merciful and shoot his old captain between the eyes. If Sam wasn’t… Dean shook his head. Sam was alive. He knew it. He had to be. There was no Dean without Sam.

Castiel was a constant presence at Dean’s side and slightly behind him, just out of his peripheral vision. When the Cay came into view and there were no sails to be seen through his spyglass, Dean pounded his fist into the railing. “God damn it, he’s not here.”

Castiel’s voice was low and calm. “Balthazar usually heads north from here.”

Dean whirled to face Castiel, his spyglass still gripped tight in his fist, frustration desperate for a target. “What are you doing? Why are you really here?”

Ocean blue eyes narrowed under dark brows. “I’m helping you, Dean.”

“Yeah, I get that. Why? What’s your angle?”

Castiel shook his head once. “No angle. Just helping.”

Dean bristled, squaring his shoulders and taking an aggressive posture. “You’re helping me kill your master?”

Castiel’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his sides and he looked away. “He’s not—“

Benny interjected himself between the two men. “Is there a problem, Cap’n?”

Dean never took his eyes off Castiel. “Take the helm. Mr. Novak and I need to have a talk in my cabin.” He grabbed the shorter man roughly by an arm and all but dragged him below to his cabin, ignoring the stares of his men. He shoved Castiel inside and slammed the hatch shut behind him, the glass rattling in its frame. “You got something to say, say it.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why are you being such a dick to me? I’m trying to  _ help _ you. Balthazar is a terrible human being and he needs to be stopped.” Castiel angled a finger at Dean, eyes aflame with ire. “And if you ever refer to me as his property again, Dean Winchester, so help me. I will beat you to death.”

“Fine, that was a low blow. I just don’t understand how you’re flipping loyalties so fast.”

Castiel sighed, his hands spreading to either side in an exaggerated shrug. “I’m a pirate. You’re the better allegiance.”

Dean shook his head but his voice was lower, less infuriated. “There’s no such thing as a good allegiance among pirates, Cas.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Fine, you’re the better  _ person _ , do you like the sound of that better?”

The captain looked at the floor off to his left. “That’s an even bigger lie.”

Three bootsteps and then there was a rough hand on Dean’s cheek, drawing his gaze back to Castiel’s eyes. God, were they blue. Dean could get lost in them if he kept looking. “You are a good man,” Castiel whispered. “I wish you could see the goodness in yourself. I wish you could see you the way your men see you. The way I see you.”

Dean swallowed hard, his eyes burning, but said nothing, just stared down into those Caribbean pools.

“It doesn’t always have to be a fight between us,” Castiel went on. “Sure, we’ll fight sometimes, and we’ll fuck, but this,” he indicated the space between them with his free hand. “This constant competition over how good or bad you are, this can get resolved right here and now. You love your brother more than I even knew it was possible to love a sibling. You care for your men and you’re fiercely loyal to them and never had to demand their respect, did you?”

After a pause, Dean shook his head, a single tear beading at the corner of his eye.

“You hate to kill people. If you had your way, you’d never kill another soul again.”

“But I do kill people. And I will again. Probably in the next twenty-four hours.”

“ _ But you didn’t kill me _ .” Castiel’s eyes went from Dean’s to his lips and back up again, their faces inching closer. “You’re a pirate. You could have killed me on that trade ship. You probably should have killed me but you didn’t. Do you know why?”

Dean swallowed again. “Because I hesitated.”

Castiel shook his head. “Because you are a  _ good person _ . I could see it in your eyes that night. You were looking for a way that we could both make it out alive.”

“Castiel, I… .” Dean trailed off before his voice could break.

Castiel closed the distance between them, their chests nearly touching. He wiped at the corner of Dean’s eye with his thumb. “Call me Cas.”

Dean wasn’t sure who made the next move, but their lips crashed together. Castiel’s tongue probed his lips and Dean let him in, drinking in the taste of him. A sudden knock at the door threw them away from each other. “Yeah?” Dean called.

Garth pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. “Sails, sir. It’s the  _ Blackbird _ .”

Dean nodded. “Good. Hoist the colors. I want Balthazar to know it’s us.”

The scrawny man nodded. “Aye, sir.” The door closed behind him with a clatter.

Cas and Dean stared at each other for a long moment. “Can we continue this later?” Dean asked.

“Absolutely. But first let’s go get your brother.”

 

***

 

The  _ Mermaid _ had a headwind and it took well over an hour to get the  _ Blackbird _ within firing range. Dean stood with his gunners and boarding party all around him. They listened intently, Benny translating for the few who still hadn’t quite picked up English. “Aim high. Sam’s on that ship so do not sink her, understand? I want her disabled. Balthazar is probably keeping Sam in the brig on the lowest deck.”

“There’s dry rot on the starboard stern,” Cas added.

“Good. Aim for the starboard stern then. Maybe we’ll hit the rudder chain. Once we catch up to her, disabled or not, we board. Gunners will cease fire before we board. Don’t kill anyone if you can avoid it. Balthazar is the enemy here. His crew are our friends. They won’t want to fight us anymore than we want to fight them. Benny, I want you and your men to capture Balthazar and bring him aboard. If he’s hurt Sam, I’m going to kill him.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Any questions?” Dean was met with a thick smattering of negatives. “Good. On my orders.” His gunners and the boarding party dispersed, leaving Dean and Castiel alone on the quarterdeck. “Garth,” he shouted. “Get me as much speed out of those sails as you can.”

“Aye, cap’n.” The scrawny man barked orders to his men and after a few moments the  _ Mermaid _ started moving a little faster.

“Gunners, ready,” Dean called. The drumbeat of hatches hitting the hull told him that they were. “Fire!” The little ship lurched under the recoil, thunder belching from her hull. All shots fell wide of the target. “Again!” he barked. Thunder again answered. Through his spyglass Dean watched one cannonball hit the port stern and ricochet, ending with a pitiful splash in the ocean.

The  _ Blackbird’s _ guns flashed, then the distant boom. Twin shots missed by at least twenty yards on each side. Warning shots. Whether it was a warning from Balthazar or his gunners—Dean’s old gunners—he couldn’t be sure. But the message was clear:  _ you’re playing with fire and we’re ready for you _ . Good. Dean gave the order to fire again. More misses. But with each passing minute the  _ Mermaid _ drew closer to her prey. “Aim high to starboard, damn it!” he yelled between shots.

Finally, one hit and the hull splintered. Cas was right about that dry rot. Dean nodded to himself. “That’s more like it,” he shouted to his gunners. “Again!”

The two ships exchanged potshots at each other, most missing their targets. Finally, when the  _ Mermaid _ was only a hundred yards out from her prey, the  _ Blackbird’s _ mast exploded in a shower of shrapnel and fell like a tree. The canvas ripped, the lines tore free, and men on the main deck scattered away from the disaster. Dean’s lips parted in a ferocious grin. “Cease fire!” He turned to Cas, whose face was grim but supportive.

Cas nodded. “Good shot.”

“Damn right, it was. Take the helm. Boarding party, to me!” Dean spun away and made his way down from the quarterdeck, long coat billowing behind him in the wind. His men waited at the railing with boarding planks and grappling hooks. They looked to their captain expectantly. Dean drew in a long breath and blew it out. He didn’t have any rousing speech prepared. All he could think of was his brother, of all the men he didn’t want to hurt on the  _ Blackbird _ . He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, trying to think of something to say. The men waited.

“Normally this is where I’d give you some last instructions or some rallying pep talk. But, honestly… I’ve got nothing. Balthazar’s men probably won’t fight us if we capture him.” He drew his dagger from its sheath on his belt and fingered the hilt. “We go in, we get Balthazar, we get Sam, and we get gone. I want that son of a bitch in my brig so bad I can taste it.” He looked around at the grim faces of his crew. Some nodded. “Understood?”

“Aye, sir,” was the unanimous reply.

“Good. Because we’re here.” Dean tipped his head in the direction of the  _ Blackbird _ , which was close enough for planks. Planks crossed the distance between the ships, all guns quiet. There was no sound but the lapping of the waves and the creaking of the hulls. Dean was the first to cross the plank. As his boots hit the deck he was met with a dozen hesitant faces, eyes darting between Dean and their own captain.

“Mr. Winchester,” Balthazar said with haughty disdain in his voice. “You broke my ship. I should hang you for that.”

His inner smartass quipped  _ from what _ , but he left the thought unsaid. Sam was the priority. “Where’s my brother, you son of a bitch?”

Balthazar snapped his fingers and two men dragged a beaten and bloody Sam from below. At a nod from their captain the brutes dropped the boy unceremoniously to the deck at Balthazar’s feet. Dean saw the pistol in Balthazar’s hand for the first time, angled lazily at Sam and he gripped his own dagger until his knuckles popped. Footfalls behind him reassured him that his backup had arrived. Sam spat bright red blood at Balthazar’s feet. He was clearly struggling to stay on his hands and knees without collapsing.

“What do you want, Balthazar?”

The shorter man looked up to the sky in mock contemplation, then narrowed his eyes at Dean. “I want my property back. I want your ship. I want your profits. And I want my first mate.”

Dean widened his stands and squared his shoulders, dagger ready for action, pistol a comforting weight on his hip. “Cas isn’t property, you prick. And I already told you: our arrangement is terminated.” There were several excruciating heartbeats where no one spoke or moved. When Dean spoke again he addressed Balthazar’s crew. “Our fight isn’t with you. I want Balthazar. Hand him over and we’ll leave peacefully.”

The little man threw his head back and barked out a laugh. It was a wonder his ridiculous bicorn didn’t fall right off his head. “Dean Winchester is as black-hearted a pirate as they come. He’ll betray you in an instant. Don’t listen to him.”

“How long will you last out here with that bum mast, huh? Do you have the rations for that?”

The two captains stared each other down. Balthazar broke first. “Fine. Take your brother.” His thumb slid over the hammer of the pistol with a click.

“No!” Dean dove at Balthazar but the boom sounded before he could get a step. Sam fell to the deck with a shout, blood everywhere. Dean let out a wordless scream of rage and continued on his course for Balthazar, grabbing him around the middle and tackling him to the deck. They slid toward the railing on the opposite side of the ship, Balthazar’s pistol clattering to the deck and sliding off into the sea. Dean wailed on Balthazar with the fist holding his dagger, punching the side of his face until the smaller man stopped fighting.

Benny hauled Dean off Balthazar and two more men swooped in to capture him. “Sam,” Dean breathed, wrenching away from his friend and rushing to his brother’s side. “Sammy, hey, talk to me.”

“Shoulder,” his brother squeaked out. “I can’t… I can’t feel my arm.”

“You’re going to be okay, Sammy. You’re gonna be okay.” Dean wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. There was so much blood. Sam’s shirt was soaked with it. His eyes were purple and swollen and Dean’s vision went blurry with tears in his eyes. He hated them, hated for Sam to see them, but they welled in his eyes nonetheless. “Just hang in there. Rufus!” he shouted. “Rufus!”

Kevin Tran knelt at Dean’s side. “Rufus is dead. He passed in his sleep last month.”

For a long breath Dean just stared at the boy, slack jawed. Sam let out a pained cry through gritted teeth and he turned his attention back to his brother. “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Kevin, needle, thread, rum, now.” When Dean looked up, a crowd had gathered around the Winchesters. Sam whimpered as the older brother tore open his shirt from the bullet hole. “Hold him down,” he said to no one in particular. Three men knelt around the brothers, one laying across Sam’s legs, another over his lower back, and the third pinned his arms. Dean blew out a breath and spread the wound open until he could see the ball. He carefully slid his dagger into the wound, wincing as Sam screamed, writhing beneath the weight of the men holding him. It took two tries and felt like an eternity of his brother’s agony, but Dean finally got the blade under the bullet and pulled it free from Sam’s shoulder.

Kevin returned finally and Dean snatched the bottle of rum from his hands, pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured it over Sam’s wound. His little brother let out one last shout and then his body went slack, collapsing onto Dean’s knees. For one horrible second, he was sure his brother was dead. He forced himself to feel Sam’s chest for a heartbeat. Sam’s heart thumped against Dean’s hand and he sagged in relief. He was alive. Kevin handed him a threaded needle and Dean set to work carefully stitching Sam’s shoulder closed. He prayed to whoever was listening that his brother wouldn’t come to until the stitches were done. He worked as swiftly as he dared, tugging the skin together with the thread. Finally finished, he tied off the thread and broke off the excess with his teeth.

Benny was at Dean’s side again when he looked up. “Help me get him back to my cabin on the  _ Mermaid _ .” Dean stood, the three men who’d been holding Sam down backing away. Working together, Dean lifted Sam under the arms, Benny taking his knees. He was complete dead weight—which Dean tried not to think about too much—but they managed. Without being told to, men gathered on both sides of the plank to hold it still so the two men could shuffle across. Dean looked up at the quarterdeck when they were safely across and Cas met him with worried eyes. Dean didn’t see who took the helm from Cas, but the dark-haired man met him at the cabin, opening the door for them.

Sam didn’t stir when they laid him down on the bed. Dean nodded his thanks to Benny, who laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder in passing. Dean pulled a chair to the bedside as Cas shut the door and came to his side.

“What happened? Is he…?”

Dean shook his head, eyes glued to his brother. “No. He passed out. Balthazar shot him. To spite me.” He covered his face in his hands, gruff whisper sounding thunderous in his own ears. “It’s all my fault.”

Cas said nothing but draped an arm across Dean’s shoulders.

“I shouldn’t have tried to reason with him. I should have come in guns blazing.” His eyes burnt with unshed tears. He lifted his head, arms coming back down to rest on his knees. He watched Sam’s chest rise and fall softly, assuring himself that his brother was still alive. “I should have killed Balthazar as soon as I got aboard that ship. Now Sammy is…” Dean's voice failed him and the wet drop of a tear hit his cheek.

“Dean, this is not your fault.” Cas's voice was low and under other circumstances may have been comforting, but Dean's guilt would not be assuaged. “Don't mistake your goodness for weakness.”

Dean stood so fast the chair fell over backwards with a clatter and he shrugged Castiel's arm off his shoulder. “Stay with him,” Dean barked as he slammed the cabin door behind him. He ignored the concerned faces of his crew as he stormed down the stairs to the little brig.

Balthazar sat on the floor, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His face was bruised and bleeding from the beating Dean had given him and he barely acknowledged Dean as he entered the hold. He kept his seat when Dean unlocked the cell.

“Get up.”

Slowly Balthazar began to rise.

“Now!”

The shorter man sighed as if he were terribly put out by the order, but complied.

As soon as he was on his feet, Dean grabbed him roughly by the jacket and hauled him up the stairs to the main deck. Once topside, he shoved Balthazar to the boards. He landed on his hands and knees. Dean drew his dragon and angled it at Balthazar, aiming for his head. Silence fell over the deck.

It was short lived. “Do it,” Balthazar sneered. “You cold-blooded murderer. No. You don't have the stones for it, do you?”

“Dean,” came Sammy's voice from behind him. Slow boot steps and then Sam's voice again, closer. “You're better than this.”

Dean squeezed the pistol grip tighter, fighting a tremble. Sam was okay and Dean was a monster. Balthazar was right; he was cold-blooded. Sam's voice was a tragedy, all sadness and fear and Dean hated himself for it. Castiel's words rang in his ears. _ Don't mistake your goodness for weakness _ . Dean lowered his dragon.

Balthazar sneered. “I knew you couldn't do it.”

Dean closed the distance between himself and Balthazar and punched the smaller man square in the nose. He felt the bones break under his fist. Balthazar staggered back, covering his nose with a shout.

“Get the hell off my ship!” Dean pointed a finger toward the  _ Blackbird _ and glared down at Balthazar.

Balthazar staggered backward until he bumped into the railing. Only then did he turn and scramble back across the plank. With a nod from Dean, his men pulled the boarding planks back aboard the  _ Mermaid _ . Dean turned to his brother, whose face was pale with pain, his left arm held stiffly against his chest, ripped shirt hanging ragged from his shoulders. Dean pulled him into a careful hug. “I thought I lost you, man.”

Sam’s voice shook. “Yeah, me too.”

“You good?”

The taller man shrugged, hissing and face all scrunched up. “For having just been shot, yeah.”

Dean forced a ghost of a smile that he knew didn’t make it to his eyes. “Good. Let’s get back to Nassau. There’s a pretty harbormaster’s daughter who’d love to nurse you back to health. Mr. Fitzgerald, sails.”

“Aye, sir,” came the reply.

Thunder clapped and the  _ Mermaid _ lurched to the side. “What the hell?” Dean muttered. Another boom and a terrible cracking of splintered wood. The  _ Blackbird _ was firing. “All hands to your stations! Port gunners, return fire right damn now! Garth, get that wind!”

The deck shuddered as the port guns lit up the  _ Blackbird _ in return. Dean sprinted to the quarterdeck to take the helm as Garth’s men swung the boom until the sheet filled. The  _ Mermaid _ pulled away at an agonizingly slow pace and the shots kept coming from the  _ Blackbird _ . He looked across the distance and made out a scowl on Balthazar’s bloodied face.

The two ships exchanged potshots, never missing with the close proximity. A hole had opened up on the  _ Blackbird’s _ hull. With another shot, her powder keg blew. Dean crouched and covered his head, shrapnel falling like rain. Standing, his eyes searched the  _ Mermaid _ for first Sam, then Cas. Sam was fine, right where Dean had left him. Cas was nowhere to be found. “Cas!” he shouted. His mind treated him to an image of the dark-haired man with a huge splinter of wood piercing his chest, blood staining his white shirt, and the light dying out of his blue eyes. “Cas!” His heart pounded in his chest, the heat and crackle of fire at his back as the  _ Blackbird _ burned.

“Man overboard!” Benny’s voice rang out and the bottom dropped out of Dean’s stomach. He rushed to the railing and searched the sea. Cas floated face down in the ocean.

“Line,” he ordered and shed his coat and tricorn, letting them fall to the deck at his feet. He caught the rope that Garth tossed to him, climbed atop the railing, and dove into the water. He came up just a few feet from Castiel, who suddenly began thrashing. Dean grabbed him around the waist and hauled his head above the water. “Cas, Cas, I got you.” Cas coughed and sputtered up seawater but stopped fighting. “There you go. Just breathe, okay?”

Castiel shook his head. “Can’t,” he wheezed, coughing some more.

“Pull us up.” Dean and Cas gripped the line with both hands as the crew began to pull them back to the deck. They clambered over the railing and collapsed onto the deck, Cas landing on top of Dean. The captain ran a hand through Cas’s dripping hair and pulled their foreheads together until they touched. “Thought I lost you.” Their chests heaved, Cas turning to cough up more water.

“I,” sputter, “thought you did, too.” Cas winced and put a hand to the back of his head. “Must have hit my head when I fell overboard. Knocked me out.”

Dean’s relief bubbled up into an absurd chuckle. “You’re damn lucky, you know that?”

Cas stared down into his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

The sound of Sam clearing his throat reminded Dean that they weren’t alone on the deck. He looked up at the blinking eyes and knowing smirks surrounding them on three sides. Only the sea to his left was oblivious to what had just happened. He cleared his throat and the two men climbed to their feet. Another blast from the  _ Blackbird _ drew Dean’s attention.

Everyone stared at the burning wreckage. “Do you think there’s any survivors?” Sam asked.

A guilty knife twisted in Dean’s gun. “God, I hope so. Let’s bring aboard any we can find.”

They found a total of twelve survivors, including Kevin and Harry Spangler. Making a circle of the wreckage, Dean spotted Balthazar clinging to a floating plank of wood. His bicorn was gone and his arms were burnt. He looked up at Dean and part of him relished the look of total defeat in his rival’s eyes.

“Cap’n?” Benny asked.

Dean met Castiel’s eyes. The other man’s face was void of judgement, only trust. Trust, Dean figured, that he’d make the right choice.

“Pull him up,” Dean said.

“Sir?” Benny asked.

“I said, bring him aboard.”

Benny nodded and with the help of another man, threw a line out to Balthazar and hauled him up to the deck. Balthazar was gravely wounded but standing under his own power. He was also silent, face turned down into a look of pure hopelessness.

“Lock him in the brig,” Dean ordered. “Two meals a day until we get to Nassau.” Dean glared at his prisoner. “Thanks to him we have to limp back to put the  _ Mermaid _ in dry dock for repairs.”

Benny shoved at Balthazar, leading him roughly below.

“Garth, I want you to oversee temporary patches on the way. Sam, I want you healing in your hammock.” Benny returned to the main deck. “Benny, you have command and the helm. Cas, come with me.” Dean didn’t look to make sure that Cas was following him, but his footsteps sounded on the deck behind him. They descended the stairs and made the sharp turn to Dean’s cabin, Cas closing the door behind him.

“Yes, Dean?”

The captain lit a sconce by the bed, bathing the room in a warm, flickering glow. “Thank you.” His eyes fell to the bed, to the blood stain Sam had left behind. “For what you said earlier.”

“About you being a good man?”

Dean nodded. “I was going to kill Balthazar when I drew my pistol on him. I  _ wanted _ to do it, too.” He stared at the blood on the blanket and hated it, hated himself for letting Balthazar get the drop on them and take Sam. “He was unarmed and already injured. But I could hear how afraid Sam was. Afraid of me.”

Castiel said nothing but crossed the room and stripped the bloodied blanket off the bed, breaking Dean’s staring match with the stain. “But you made the right choice.”

“Only because you believed in me. Maybe I should have killed him.”

Cas straightened up from his task and looked into Dean’s eyes. “He’s lost everything. He’s no threat to Sam anymore. And you learned a valuable lesson.”

Dean stared into those blue irises. “What’s that?”

Cas laid a hand against Dean’s cheek. “That you  _ are _ a good man. Because anyone who is as bad as you thought you were would not have let him live.”

Dean covered Castiel’s hand and closed his eyes. “But I’m still a pirate.”

“And you are living proof that there is honor among thieves.” Cas sighed. “Look, you can either be free or you can be a slave. Anyone who depends on another man for his livelihood is a slave. Dean.” Fingertips dug into his scalp and Dean opened his eyes. Castiel’s were fiercely certain. “With Balthazar down, you’re free. Finally, truly free.”

The weight of that statement hit home. He’d done it. Cas was right. He and Sam had their own ship and were beholden to no man. He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.” Cas smirked. “What are you going to do with it?”

“That depends.” Dean’s grin turned predatory and he crowded into Cas’s space, hands falling to his waist. “What will you let me get away with?”

“Far be it from me to hold a free man down.” Cas yanked Dean’s shirt until it came untucked and then off over his head. “Unless you want me to.”

Cas’s soaked shirt clung to his chest and Dean peeled it off, dropping it to the floor with a splat. “We’re not going to fight about it? You’re going to let me have my way, just like that?”

Cas shook his head, their noses a hairsbreadth apart. “Heavens, no. I’m going to make you work for it.”

“Then kiss me.”

“Say ‘please.’”

Dean gripped Cas by the hair at the back of his head. “Shut up.” He brought their lips together, his tongue diving into Cas’s mouth. He still tasted a little like seawater, the hard lines of their bodies pressing together.

Cas shivered and pushed away from Dean, fire in his blue eyes. “Boots. Pants. Now.”

“Hey, I’m the captain of this ship,” Dean teased, but he was already pulling off his boots, water pouring out of them onto the deck. He unlaced his pants next, shimmying out of the wet material while Cas followed suit.

“Then,  _ Captain _ , permission to suck your cock?” His face was completely serious, except for the mirth that crinkled around his eyes.

Dean shoved Cas to his knees in front of him. “Granted,” he said, and then Cas was on him, swallowing his erection down to the root. Dean ran his fingers through Cas’s hair, gripping tight when Cas did some kind of glorious swirling thing with his tongue. “Fuck, Cas,” he breathed, thrusting slowly into the moist heat of Cas’s mouth, watching as those full lips stretched around his thick cock. Cas’s hands slid up the back of Dean’s thighs, strong fingers digging into his ass. Then one of Cas’s hands disappeared, reappearing in front of his face, three fingers angled for Dean’s lips. He sucked the digits into his mouth, running his tongue over the salty skin until they were wet with saliva.

Two of those fingers found Dean’s hole and massaged the rim before pushing inside. Dean thrusted harder and moaned, his fingers pulling at Cas’s hair. On the backstroke of each thrust, Dean fucked himself on Cas’s fingers until a third entered him. The third finger burnt for just a moment, then it was just the sensation of being filled.

“Want you, Cas,” he moaned. Cas hummed while Dean’s cock was touching the back of his throat. Dean shuddered. “Oh, yeah.”

Cas dug his fingers deeper inside Dean, rubbing at his sweet spot. He pulled off Dean’s cock with a slurp. “Say please.” Then he dove back into sucking Dean off.

“Please,” Dean panted.

“Tell me what you want, Dean.”

“Please—ah—please fuck me,” Dean said.

Cas pulled off his cock and out of his ass immediately and Dean shivered at the loss of sensation. But Cas stood up and pointed to the captain’s bed. “Lie down, face up,” Cas ordered.

Dean wrapped one arm around Castiel’s waist and pulled him close for a kiss, their hard cocks sliding together. When they pulled away, Dean said with a smirk, “Say ‘please.’”

The other man raised an eyebrow and he wasn’t Cas in that moment, but Castiel, all fire and wrath. Dean’s grin faltered, that look going straight to his throbbing cock. Castiel held Dean’s gaze as he reached around to slap him hard on the ass. Dean sucked in a breath at the sting, but that too redoubled his arousal. “Bed.”

Dean complied, laying with his head on the pillows atop the bare mattress. Cas climbed over him and knelt between Dean’s legs, dipping his head to lick a stripe up his leaking cock with his wicked tongue, which he swirled around the head. Dean pressed his head back into the pillows and thrust his hips up. He needed more, something, anything. After an eternity, Cas spat into his hand twice and rubbed it on his thick cock, pressing the blunt head against Dean’s entrance.

“Ready?” Cas asked.

Dean nodded eagerly. “Yes,” he panted. “Please.”

Castiel raised that brow again and smirked. “Now you’re learning.” And then he pushed inside while Dean took deep breaths and relaxed, opening for him. The stretch was fantastic, too much and not enough. Cas was relentless as he pushed all the way in to the hilt and paused.

Dean grew accustomed to the stretch and nodded. “Move,” he said. Then Cas was pulling out and pushing in again slowly, the head of his cock dragging through him. Cas was big and Dean felt full, so full, and it was glorious. “More,” Dean gasped. “Please, I can take it.”

Cas pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, over and over and over until Dean thought he’d burst at the seams. He was split open, torn in two by this blue-eyed hurricane. “Cas,” he panted. “Touch me.”

Cas took Deans cock in his hand and stroked it in time with his thrusting. He rolled his hand over the leaking head as he hit Dean’s sweet spot. “Close, so close” Dean chanted.

Sweat dripped from Cas’s face onto Dean’s chest. “Me too,” he said. “Come with me, Captain.”

His words stretched the bow taut and snapped it and Dean’s world exploded with pleasure and ecstasy, hot ropes of come pouring out of him onto his stomach, his chest, his face. Cas jerked into him in stuttering thrusts, his rhythm utterly lost in his own orgasm. He collapsed onto Dean’s chest, both men panting and gasping for breath. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathed, running his fingers through his lover’s hair. “Wanted this since the brig aboard the  _ Blackbird _ . Wanted you. All this time. Even when I hated you I wanted you.”

Cas slid into place next to Dean on the mattress, his head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder with Dean’s arm around him. “You have me, now and forever. I’m yours, Dean.”


	11. Epilogue: The Sunset

The  _ Buxom Mermaid _ made it safely back to Nassau inside of two days. Dean stood on the quarter deck flanked by his brother on his right and Cas on his left. Sam was at least standing under his own power. The wound on his shoulder was red and angry but it didn’t bleed or weep, which was a good sign.

Jessica Moore stood on the dock, worried eyes scanning the deck until they landed on Sam. Her face turned red and she clapped a hand over her mouth to see him alive, eyes relieved and overjoyed. Sam waved to her with his good arm, a goofy, love-struck grin on his face. He looked impossibly young, too young to have almost died two days ago.

“Garth, trim sails,” Dean called, and the scrawny man relayed the order to his men. The captain let the ship come into the dock under the power of inertia and it slowed to a halt just before it bumped the dock. The men ran out the gangplank and Sam just stood there on the quarter deck, staring at Jessica and smiling. “Tie off those mooring lines,” Dean yelled. “Sam, come with me.”

Sam tore his eyes away from Jessica and followed his brother to the captain’s cabin. Dean strode to the desk and opened a drawer, lifting out a false bottom. Underneath was Bobby’s leather purse, considerably fuller than it had been a year ago when they’d taken it off his body. Dean dropped the purse into Sam’s hand. The younger brother stared down at the little sack and huffed a laugh. “What’s this?”

“Your fresh start,” Dean answered and his voice came out gruff, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall. “I want you to marry that girl. And take over for her father so the old man can retire. And I want you to have a mess of kids, and I want you to name one Dean. And I don’t ever want you to be a pirate again. Okay?”

Sam shook his head, looking trapped somewhere between boy and man but leaning toward the latter. “I can’t take this. It’s your life’s savings.”

Dean shrugged. “I’ll steal some more. With Balthazar down, I’m the baddest dude on the sea.”

Sam closed the gap between them and caught Dean in a bear hug, slapping him on the back. “Thank you, Dean.” When he pulled away there were tears glistening in his eyes and he sniffed.

The sight of his brother so near tears had Dean all choked up. “I was serious about naming a kid Dean,” he said, angling a finger at his brother. “I mean it, Sammy. I deserve tribute.”

Sam laughed and swiped a thumb under his eyes. “Got it. First son, I promise.” After a pause, he asked, “Who will be your first mate?”

“Cas,” Dean answered. “We’re kinda a thing now.” He didn’t fight the smug smile that tugged at his lips.

Sam’s grin widened. “Good. You were getting insufferable with all that pining. A year I had to put up with it.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

Sam laughed. “Jerk.”

By the time they emerged from Dean’s cabin the ship was moored and the men stood on the main deck, waiting to be granted shore leave. Dean pulled the hatch shut behind him and stepped forward to address the crew. “ _ Blackbird _ survivors are welcome to find a bunk or disembark, it’s up to you. I want everyone to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. We shove off again in five days. Enjoy.”

With that the men dispersed, some tipping their hats to Miss Moore as they passed her on the dock where she waited for Sam. Dean smirked and tilted his head in the direction of the gangplank. “Go on. Sweep her off her feet, then clean out your bunk.”

“Thank you, Dean,” the younger brother answered.

Benny and Cas approached Dean next. “What you want done with Balthazar?” the former asked.

“I want that son of a bitch off my ship. Bring him up.”

“Aye, sir,” Benny nodded and hustled below. When he reemerged, he led a surly Balthazar, bicorn gone and wrists cuffed in front of him.

Dean grabbed Balthazar roughly by the arm and mostly dragged him down the gangplank. He unlocked the irons with the key in his pocket and shoved him to the boards. “If I ever see you again, I will kill you on sight. Do you hear me?”

Balthazar climbed to his feet and gave a mock bow. “Likewise,  _ sir _ .” He walked backwards a few steps and then turned, sauntering away while Dean glared at his back.

When he was away from the pier and out of sight in the crowd of merchants and pirates, Dean exhaled a long breath and turned to Castiel who’d remained aboard the  _ Mermaid _ at the top of the gangplank. “Feel up for a promotion, First Mate Novak?”

A warm smile spread Cas’s lips and he dipped his head in a nod. “Why certainly,  _ Captain _ .”

Dean nodded, lips pursed as he climbed the gangplank. “Well that was easy. Come on, let’s take inventory and go see Ellen.”

“Let me make sure Sam cleaned out my bunk—”

Dean snatched Cas around the waist with one strong arm and pulled them together. “Absolutely not,” he said in his Captain voice. “You’re sleeping with me.”

Cas’s grin brightened and his blue eyes flashed between Dean’s eyes and his lips as he leaned closer. “My pleasure, sir.”

Dean shivered, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Call me that again in that voice and I’ll bend you over this railing and take you for the world to see.”

“Is that a threat? Sir?” Castiel purred.

Dean’s hand slid down from the small of Castiel’s back to grab a fistful of his first mate’s ass. “A promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! Thank you for sticking with me all the way to the end! It sure was fun to write... I hope you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are always appreciated. Don't forget to check out [Idjitsavior's](https://idjitsaviors.tumblr.com/) Tumblr. Her art is just STUNNING! You can find her art post for this story [here](https://idjitsaviors.tumblr.com/post/175575194746/my-art-for-mistresspandora-for-the)... go share the love!!! You can also find more awesome stories written for this year's Dean Cas Mini Bang [on Tumblr](https://deancasminibang.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER ALERT!
> 
> If you're reading this I hope you want to know who dies in the first chapter... it's Bobby, okay? I'm sorry but I had to do it to move the story where I wanted it to go. If it's any consolation, I cried writing it. And I wrote and rewrote the scene several times so that's A LOT of crying. I love you?


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